At the End
by Gabi1994
Summary: The war is over. The dust has settled. The only thing left is to try to get by as well as one can. These are the words of the defeated, of the weak. The survivors, those who were strong, have no need of words, they are still standing in hell, resisting the madness. Alone if fate demands it of them. Fate has other plans. Sequel to A Break in Routine
1. Chapter 1 - Languish

Ch 1

Languish

"Miss Granger," Came the familiar mocking drawl.

The words seemed to slide down her ears right out of dim, happy memories of school; of getting caught asleep after hours in the library, potions books stacked five high all around the night before her O.W.L.S; of long hours, back and neck aching, spent bent over steaming cauldrons in a room that smelt strongly of magic and spells gone right and wrong; the sharp, odorous, wonderful, powerful, pungent, pleasant scents of a draught correctly brewed, the delicious swirl of power even the smell of one gave off.

But, this was not school, this was not then, in response to the alien stimulus of her _name_, not mudblood, not filth, not bitch, her body jerked in its bonds. She could do little more, she could not remember the last time she had been fed, and water was a distant, fuzzy memory of two day's past.

Bound awkwardly, eagle spread, flat against the damp, moldering walls, iron rings which extended directly from the stone clasped around neck, wrists and ankles. No chain in between solid immovable iron, they had grown wise to her tricks and would not risk giving her even the ability to gesture with her arms.

Her seemingly catatonic state seemed to anger the dangerously familiar voice. She did not want to think about the implications of this voice, did not want to think what this sudden change in routine would mean for her.

"I fail tosee why you irk Bellatrix so… almost not worth bringing the dementor for a kiss," the voice drawled almost lazily.

A surge of adrenaline flew down her veins, giving her the energy to lift her head and stare at the tall familiar figure. He spoke true, there, gliding through the wall, was the creature of her doom. She was so used to their debilitating presence she had not noticed this one creeping close, so close.

She could not even sense a change in herself as it came on, she was always afraid, always cold, always these horrible, dark memories assaulted her mind. In the beginning, the weapon had been their deaths, of the two of them, her golden boys, and the faces of her parents, as they forgot they'd ever had a daughter, of the others, the many others, and the war. Now she had many, many new and far more torturous things in her mind for the dementors to toy with.

So she waited, staring into its eyeless sockets, she was not terrified, oh, there was the fear, the dull animal fear that lay along her bones like an old friend, but , there were no new horrors it could bring before her mind, no new fear. She was calm.

It's gray, icy mists plucked at the rag of a sack she wore as clothing like the fingers of a dead man, and she watched it come on. The black robe was just a hair from her skin, billowing in a cold wind she could feel in her bones. She watched it, watched the gaping mouth, watched it lower.

Then she very resolutely closed her eyes. Called forth those, happy memories, his voice had so unwittingly supplied her. They were not true joy, those things had been taken, or obscured from her mind long ago. But there was contentment there, and triumph, of a sort, triumph over academia.

With a practiced flick of her frail fingers, more like thin, dry twigs than hands after her long… long stay,

'_Expecto Patronum,_' not a sound, not a whisper, no, only a thought. They had been wise to that too, a specially designed gag, cold iron across her tongue. Scream? Oh yes, loudly, clearly, piercingly, there were so many blood curdling screams she could emit, but any spell would be mangled beyond recognition, beyond hope of efficacy.

There was a puff of silver.

The creature hesitated, its meals were not supposed to fight back. It had been told it could have this one. Then from the little, insubstantial puff came a clawed and toothed creature, it barreled right into the dementor's face. Small, and so unthreatening, but the most powerful predator of its region, no fear, all wiry strength. The dementor detached from her with an earsplitting yowl of pain and as it fled through the ceiling of her cell, her otter scampered after clawing happily at the ragged trailing robes until both vanished from sight through the ceiling.

She was sad to see the creature go. Without her otter, she felt desperately cold again. Resigned to her coming punishment for such defiance she shifted her eyes to the figure in the door.

She studied him carefully, he looked no different than the last time she had seen him, the end of sixth year… how many years ago now? At least two… she didn't think it had been more than five. She desperately hoped it had not been more than five… they said men were driven mad after one year in Azkaban, she was not there, but the number of dementors in whatever place she was kept in made it like enough… if it had been more than five years she could not possibly still be in her right mind.

That hard face gave none of his thoughts away, though black eyes pierced her with such clarity, she wondered she could not read them there. Neither spoke, she for the impossibility of it, he for well concealed shock.

Suddenly, the door at his back was thrown open and a familiar and violently hated personage burst in. In his wake glided three dementors. Her heart sank. She was so terribly tired. She would not manage that feat again.

"I felt some strange working," her tormentor exclaimed his yellowed bloodshot eyes scrutinizing the room.

Cold, black eyes flicked from her to the thin, sallow, cruel face of her keeper.

"You half-witted bloodfilth," black eyes were pure rage, "_Never_ interrupt me with a prisoner," the words were more deadly for their cool, slow cadence.

"Excusing myself, sir, this one's very dangerous—" the words were bare out of his mouth before at a flick of the other's hand he was hurled back out the door.

It slammed behind him and then her keeper's screams began. He touched his wand and…from the sound of it a Crucio curse, she knew that particular scream very well. She marveled at his power to project a silent unforgivable at a victim not in his direct line of sight.

Then those black eyes returned to her and she braced herself, prepared for the coming onslaught.

…

…

…

It never came. The wand vanished back into its pocket. Expectantly she watched him, arching one brow in silent askance.

"You are very lucky, Miss Granger, your usual tormentor has displeased the Dark Lord," he looked away from her then surveying the cell… no the torture chamber, "It seems she killed someone Voldemort still had use for."

He saw the slight smirk on her face despite the crude device crammed, like a horse's bit, into her mouth, it pleased her to know Bellatrix was no doubt suffering several Crucio curses at the moment.

"I confess, I had wondered what project had kept her so busy down here these last years, now I see."

His circuitous tour of the cells various fixtures and devices intended only for suffering had brought him very close to her.

Dark eyes studied her face, thin by nature, she now bordered on skeletal, eyes sunken, bruised, but still alive with cautious reason and not the wild madness he had been sure was the only thing left.

"How did you do it? They feed all of those kept on this level enough Befuddlement Potion to keep even the most powerful from accessing enough magic to levitate a feather."

She blinked at him, as if to say, 'you speak to me as if I could speak back, or would care to if I could. Are you blind?'

He did not respond to this non-verbal insult and continued to scrutinize her. Yes, as he expected, she had nothing more up her sleeve, no last reserve of power she might hex him with. She looked so near death it was no wonder she had waited until the very last moment to summon her charm. She had probably feared her ability to conjure more than a mist of patronus, nothing that would last to ward off a dementor, only enough to do harm in the last instant when it drew close and opened its wide maw, vulnerable.

When he reached for her face fear lit her brown eyes like droplets of amber, but she had been here too long to flinch back, rather her muscles relaxed, she well knew the pain of a blow was multiplied ten-fold if one resisted.

Grasping the buckle that held the bar gag in place, he hissed in irritation jerking his hand back when the hexed device zapped him viciously. From the way she spasmed in her bonds it had done her worse.

"Be still," he ordered going for the buckle once more.

A muttered generic counter-spell quieted the device, and though he was not its master it allowed him to remove it, with no more than minor shocking after that.

Dropping the irritating thing, no doubt of Bellatix's own making, to the ground where it sparked angrily red brown, like dried blood. He allowed her to lift her head.

Satisfied she could, and if he had his way, would speak he repeated himself, "How?"

Her throat worked silently in several aborted attempts at speech, before she managed a croak that might have been a human language. This inability seemed to distress her more than her near soul removal by a dementor's kiss.

Reaching into his voluminous robes he removed a small vial, the liquid clear, though tinted slightly blue. Uncorking the vial he tipped its contents into her mouth before she could protest.

She didn't swallow.

"If you spit that out I will call the dementors back," he informed her calmly.

She complied. The liquid burned slightly all the way down, but it was not particularly painful, more similar to menthol drops.

He was looking at her demand in every line of his frame.

Reluctant she answered, while she would no doubt be punished for her response, cool black eyes promised swifter retribution if she resisted, "The suppressing potions are in the water and the food, I've had neither for…" her voice cracked, it was a powerful tonic, but she was so dehydrated, "water was two… three days ago, I think."

He nodded studying her, "You have grown stronger, to accomplish such a feat…"

A dark chuckle bubbled to her cracked lips, to hear such words so near death. It was true, hardship had taught her strength even as it had bled her dry.

"Yes, all to accomplish my one task, to die more slowly."

She was truly a wretched sight. She did not stand, but hung, limply, from her bonds. Her once wild, goldenly brown locks, hung down below her hips in scraggly ropes, near black with grime. She was not the vivacious, young adolescent she had been, only her eyes gave sign of life and they held such grimness he wondered that she had summoned a patronus. That required joy. What could this creature possibly have left after what was at the least four years in this hellish place.

"I suggest you scream," he said then.

Dread ghosted over her skin in a ripple of gooseflesh and she grew very still, even her breath slowing.

A wand appeared in his hand and black brows drew down in a distinct glower, "I have no compunctions about giving you an adequate reason to scream."

For the space of three breaths she stared at him in silence, then as his fingers tightened on his wand she loosed such a gut wrenching scream he almost believed he had unwittingly Cruciated her.

Her deep mahogany brown eyes stared into his unwaveringly as her cry thinned to a sobbing keen. This cry modulated a few times pitch rising and falling before tapering off. She studied his blank face for a second in silence before at his unspoken prompt she let out another cry, pure anguish verbalized, so eloquent it sent chills down his back.

Approximately five minutes into this rendition her voice began to crack and with a sharp hand motion he allowed her silence. Her confusion was clear only in her eyes. Walking to the door he gave the woman a nod, "Miss Granger."

"Professor Snape," she returned in a voice that rasped slightly.

"It's Headmaster," he corrected as he exited her cell.

The disgusting little man who supervised this level watched him wide eyed, "Forgive my interruption, Sir. Had I known you had planned such an activity for our silent song bird I would never have disturbed you."

Severus gave a dark smile, "Not so silent for those who know how to coax music from reluctant throats. She is amusing to play with, I would like her to be fed and watered, I want to play with her again soon."

These words sent the lackey scurrying. Satisfied his will would be carried out Severus strode quickly out of the dungeons, there was work to be done.

* * *

When her jailor entered Hermione was shocked to see he had not only brought her water, but the lumpy, burnt gruel she had known as food for so long it no longer revolted her. She hated him and he her. He was a cruel, twisted bastard, and before she had become so skeletal had liked to play with her body at the behest of her primary tormentor and during any time she had left over from that. Now however she looked more like death than a woman and held no appeal to him.

For that she was grateful, unfortunately his attraction for her had, at one time, assured timely meals. Now that the tedious task of tipping water thinned gruel down her throat held no reward and he often 'forgot'. He had learned in the first month that freeing her hands even to be allowed a meal often left him in full body binds or worse.

True to her ruse she hung limply in her bonds trembling, it was not hard to do. She was so very cold and tired. She played nice and did not even mouth spells to frighten him. She was too hungry to risk her meal being taken from her. Besides, after the patronus she had nothing left to cast with.

* * *

To my readers who expected a straightforward sequal to A Break in Routine, I fear my only defense once again, is that I have no interest in what we DO know about Severus Snape, only what we Don't. Look at A Break in Routine as a study of what made Snape into the man we see in Cannon, and At the End as an exploration of what he might have become if circumstances had allowed. Readers of A Break in Routine will hopefully see the connections between the two stories, however those who have never read A Break in Routine will have no trouble understanding this fic, although alot more insight into sections upcoming of this fic would be given by a reading of A Break in Routine. I guess the best way to explain, is to say that At the End is the STORY that would not let me rest until it was written, and A Break in Routine was the random tangent I got thinking about late at night during several agonizing weeks of writer's block. A Break in Routine is a prequel to At the End. It's the Back Back back story to this.

This fic began as a oneshot gift for a friend. It's grown so far beyond that I really don't know what to say except that I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I am enjoying writing it. These characters have entirely ensnared my mind, and I can't look away from thier drama. I hope you can't either.


	2. Chapter 2 - Mercy's Kiss

Ch 2

Mercy's Kiss

Hermione was not sure how much time passed before her visitor returned. Time was difficult to mark in this place, meals were not regularly spaced. The only regular visitors were their tormentors who were markedly absent. She was sure it had to do with killing someone Voldemort had wanted alive. She could not even mark time by how often she slept. Bolted to a wall the only way for her to rest was standing or hanging from her wrists, her time asleep was short and pain registered despite unconsciousness.

She was pleased to note that the dementors seemed to be avoiding her cell, probably afraid to have her patronus set upon them. They need not have worried, getting semi-regular meals again meant she was kept well sedated on a veritable melting pot of potions meant to ensure she never accessed her magic again.

But food meant life and she was still clinging stubbornly to that. She had stopped asking herself why, she knew there was no reason, or if there had been she had forgotten it long ago. She only knew she did not want to die, and if she had to she did not want it to be at a dementor's kiss. That was one death she would fight tooth and nail. Far better to die of dehydration or Avada Kedavra, a death too kind for her to even begin to hope for, or even one of Bellatrix's sick devices. She had been here long enough to know just how hard it was for a human to die of starvation.

She was dozing when he appeared again, the only connection to a life she had lead outside these four walls in more years then she could count.

"Miss Granger," Came the familiar address.

She liked it, for a brief moment she could forget her surroundings as some inner part of her, the student who had never quite died, leapt to her feet glancing wildly around for what she had done wrong, for how to please him. He, the faintly disproving adult, she, the sheltered child. He was the stern professor, who always seemed displeased, yet whose praise was the most highly valued. In that simple address he gave her back a humanity her current appearance belied.

She was once more gagged, but looked up to acknowledge him. With difficulty she straightened her legs relieving the bruising force on her wrists, in all honesty they had broken and healed so many times she wondered she could make any of her small spell movements at all. Right now they were about two weeks healing from Bellatrix having broken them, this time with mallets, a variation from her usual spell castings or complex torture devices. They were grotesquely misshapen, and discolored, a fact obvious even within their iron casements The healing process was probably made more difficult by the constant pressure they were under when her body, though frail, hung from her wrists.

When he removed her gag this time she was shocked just twice, and only the first was very painful, perhaps he had learned the deactivation words from her keeper. Bellatrix was sadistic and liked to know that both she and her keeper were punished anytime she was fed or watered.

When he stepped back she eyed him warily, in all the time she had had to herself she could not divine his intent. He had come with a dementor to dispose of her, had he not? Sure, he was curious as to how she had cast an intentional, wandless spell, silently, but getting over that, what on earth had her performance been for? Why had she gone along… oh, yes, because he would have given her reason to scream else wise. It was no pose. He had set a dementor on her. This was no game.

"How long?" she ground out from between cracking lips.

She would not have risked it normally, but he seemed to be in a relatively neutral mood, studying her with cool eyes, that gave absolutely nothing away.

"Four years," he responded in a flat tone.

She flinched. She had not needed to know that. Had not wanted to know that she had been trapped down here for four years, did not want to know that she was going to die down here and never reach the age of twenty-four. Now that was a selfish thought… so many, many of her friends from that time before this…place, had been killed at seventeen, at eighteen, poor Ginny at only fifteen.

A large part of her now considered them to be the lucky ones.

She closed her eyes briefly against the pain of that realization, emptying such depressing thoughts from her mind before it drew the dementors to her.

"Days, Headmaster, please, how many days?"

"Ten."

Hermione nodded her thanks and fell silent awaiting his move. He studied her dark eyes, dulled slightly now with the drugs, he wondered which would be worse, were he in her place, starving and clear headed or fed… at least supposedly, and drugged to the gills. She was the most skeletal creature he had ever witnessed alive. Her body had consumed all of the muscle in her legs and thighs, her knees seemed too large on frail limbs. He did not think she could stand on them. Her collarbones stood out starkly and the bones of her shoulders and arms were grotesquely apparent. Her neck seemed too frail to support her skull. She should be dead.

It was unspeakable cruelty that she was not dead. It was why he had gone to her. When he learned of her, it was terribly disturbing. He had believed the golden trio long dead, peaceful in their graves, so much better off than the living.

He knew Bellatrix. He expected the girl to have been driven out of her mind long ago, expected her to welcome an easy death. Bellatrix would never grant her one.

And nor could he. He could not risk Voldemort's anger, he had a duty to the school, to the children there, but a dementor's kiss. They got out of hand all the time.

It was an acceptable risk.

'What a shame, well, Bellatrix will just have to find a new toy,' He would have said.

She would have whined, but being out of favor with the lord, he would have gone unpunished.

But the girl had not been mad, had not wanted to die. The desire to help her ease into the kind, effortless death she so deserved was strong, but if he could not give it to her painlessly he would not force a dementor's kiss upon her.

He could not bear to watch the distressed creature fight so futility for her life again.

"Do you want to die?" he asked her,

She blinked trying to decipher his meaning. It was spoken lowly, almost gently, though she had never heard Snape speak gently to a soul in her life. It was his voice, slow and almost languid, it made words spoken in anger far more threatening and words spoken in neutrality, for she had never known him happy, seem…well, almost gentle. It was not a threat, it was not shouted rhetorically in her ear when she was defiant, he was curious.

"No."

He stared at her, as if to say, look at yourself. How can you not want death?

Her voice trembled slightly with a note of hysteria, "I'm sure there was a reason… at some point. I know I told myself, over and over in the beginning. I remember it. I remember, I can't die, this won't kill me, I won't let go… I remember wanting to live because… I remember…nothing, I only remember thinking that I had to survive. I mean… I know there can't be anything left for me, but I don't want to give up, I swore I wouldn't that first…month…year? In the beginning. In the beginning I swore it," She did not know what made her speak, yet despite her efforts she could not cease the halting flow of words. She suspected they had included something new in the brew of inhibitor potions, to loosen her tongue.

The flash of pity on his face was quickly swallowed by his cold eyes, but she saw it and grimaced, "I am not mad. I've just…lost some things… it's hard to keep a hold of oneself down here."

His cold expression was back in place and it soothed her.

"Are you here to kill me?" Again, a question burning within her that she could not silence.

"No,"

Her face wobbled as if she was unsure if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

To prevent the hysteria that she could feel looming she spoke, "I am terribly jealous of them all in a way. Vainglorious they died in an instant's green flash, no pain, no true suffering. Yes they lost, but I lost as well, they never had to live…with defeat."

Snape responded if only to put off the inevitable, for her, for a moment, "They died the death of heroes struck down in their youth, now forever immortalized. History will not speak of the survivors."

Hermione was struck by the sudden instinct that he included himself with her in that statement, survivors of the fall. She stared at this well-to-do Death Eater and glanced down at herself, defeat personified. They were utterly unalike.

He was tall, slender, for a man, but broad shouldered, and healthily fleshed. He was not young, but he was not old, a man in his prime, perhaps in his late-thirties, war had aged them all beyond their years and he had lived through one more than she. He was on the winner's side of the war, the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

She, a small woman before her ordeal, nothing but skeletal remains housing burning eyes, now. Young, but ancient for her pain, she was the vanquished, the toy of a Death Eater's sadistic pleasure.

A wand was brandished and she studied his cold empty features, "Why?"

"Why?" he repeated blandly as if he did not understand.

But she could not clarify, already the lines of fire were opening themselves on her limbs in fine precise movements and her jaw clenched her whole body straining against her bonds.

Her breath came in hard pants through her nose and not a sound passed her lips.

With effort she relaxed her body, only her jaws clenched tight, her head and neck straining. Pain multiplied with tense muscles. Another line opened, down her thigh. They were shallow, terribly shallow, but bled profusely and the pain, such terrifying pain. More pain then she knew was warranted for such a wound, it scared her. Was there poison? Was it acid? Drugged as she was she would have no hope of holding off either infection, or poison.

"Miss Granger," again, with that damned name, so familiar, so safe, it seemed blasphemous of him to say such things as he carved out her skin at wand tip. He ought to shout. He ought to curse... that would be better. Where was the hateful glower she knew so well?

"Screaming would be beneficial to you. It can get worse."

Never had she willingly cried for Bellatrix, at the most the woman could force a hoarse shout or two at the height of a Crucio curse, or breaking her wrists… or burns, Hermione had a particular weakness for burns.

However it was one thing to defy Bellatrix, her torturer nearly mad herself, screaming only gave the woman pleasure and increased the pain. With those cold, unfeeling eyes holding hers she shivered feeling the invisible blade slide beneath her skin. Blood welled startlingly crimson on her pale flesh. Four years in absence of any natural light and starvation had left her a snow white canvas for his vermillion brush.

The next wicked slice caught the tender skin of her inner elbow.

The cry building in her chest rose high and clear from her lips, as shallow cuts began marking into her palms. She did not even dare to clench her hands to protect what she could… there were worse places for him to cut. Each agonized trill was rewarded with a pause in his macabre work which blessedly returned to less sensitive portions of her skin.

He was so quiet. He did not curse her or sneer. His black eyes were so focused on her, so empty, so intent.

He paused again, watching her with sharp eyes, like she was a partially hewn block of marble and he, the artist, was unsure what portion to chip away next.

"Why?" she ground out, her eyes just as dark and cold.

He shrugged indifferently, "Why not, Miss Granger?"

"Stop," she hissed.

He raise his brow, she was not precisely in a position to demand anything.

"Curse me, damn me, break me, but do not call me that. You have no right," her eyes were near to black, her breath ragged pants that edged on sobs, but still she snarled.

Her defiance was brilliant in her dark eyes, a core of diamond, tough as iron. He had known she would be very hard to break. He silently cursed her. So weak as she was, why wouldn't she simply give up? It was for this he respected… and hated women in equal measure. Their minds could bear up under… simply horrific pain. Pain broke the minds of men, oh so quickly. It was almost simple for him now, so long had he stood his post, but it was still the women who slowed him. Forced him to do things… awful things… their pain tolerance was just so difficult to break.

He ground the barb deeper, "I have every right, Miss Granger. In this place you should well know you have none," and again he took up his wand and drew crimson upon her like garb of red rose.

She was silent for a breath then two.

"Miss Granger, need I remind you?" he drawled etching a set of small vertical bars down the inside of her upper arm.

She literally snarled at him. A lesser man might have started. For an instant she was not a broken bleeding victim, she was furious, and frightening in her anger.

But he had dealt with defiance before, though never seen so helpless a creature transform so fully… until her.

He stared blankly at her his eyes almost bored, "Please, do fight. Let us see who will prove the victor."

It was his utter lack of response that shook her. Then he cut deeply down the line of her neck just close enough to her carotid artery to cause fear of life to fully break her rage.

"Scream," he instructed, almost gently, and did not antagonize her with her name. Let her make of it what she would.

She sang.

* * *

Hermione hung limply from her bonds when he had finished, her mind scattered, adrift in a sea of pain. She was numbed to reality by the pain. This was the point she feared most. When she was at her weakest and her tormentor could ask anything of her and she would comply. Her mind molded to whatever form they wanted, for a time. She had passed days, sometimes weeks, trapped in her own mind, unable to break past the programmed personality Bellatrix had so painstakingly formed. She could not process what was happening as for the first time in over a year her ankles were removed from their shackles. She only noticed that the ground had grown much closer when upon her throat being released she fell forward, a strangled shriek escaping as the full weight of her body hung from her broken wrists. Black embraced her body, uncaring of the grime and blood, and lifted her as her wrists were also freed.

Hands which had inflicted such terrible agony were surprisingly careful when lifting her, his walk, smooth and gentle.

* * *

The woman in his arms could not weigh more than 60 pounds. She was a terrible sight, blood wept from a hundred shallow gashes he had inflicted, a variation of his _sectumsempra _curse. She did not look as though she would survive, but he was very skilled at what he did, only Bellatrix was so crude and unpolished a torturer to break her subject's body before their mind.

He studied the vulnerable, mind he had stripped of its protective walls through the windows of her eyes, like open wounds. He said nothing, knowing that it would take only a word, less, to ensure she would bend to his every whim, her will entirely obliterated by fear.

As expected the sight of his skeletal companion, crimson painted, deterred the keeper from stopping him, but he knew it would not be so with the Dark Lord.

She seemed to fare worse as they traveled further from her cell. She was nearly out of her mind with pain, which was his intent, but she still seemed aware of the fact that leaving her cell could only result in an even more violent punishment. Her claw-like hands worked spasmodically her hoarse whimpers increasing in intensity as they grew nearer and nearer the surface.

Two flights of stairs to the elevators had him free of the subterranean levels and out of the anti-apparition zone however, for the sake of his passenger, who now trembled violently, he continued to walk. She was reaching the appropriate stage as they neared the Dark Lord's study, hardly conscious, teeth chattering, incoherent pleas for mercy coming past her cracked lips in soft pants.

"Plea—stop. Please. Hurts. It—" a soft keening noise filled the air, and he knew the cuts had once more begun to burn.

"My lord?" he called out.

The doors swung open of their own accord and Snape entered. Demonic red eyes took in the delightful scene his loyal death eater presented with an indulgent smile.

Some weakling creature, out of its mind with pain, Severus, painted in speckles of blood up to his pale forearms, his face absolutely smooth as if he were singularly unaffected by the enthralling sight. It was a front of course. Severus bore a deep attachment to his victims, when they were not screaming in the throes of agony Severus always touched and manipulated with the care and precision of a surgeon. Even now he held the creature in his arms with such… tenderness. Severus treated them with a brand of reverence one only saw between a virtuoso and his greatest masterpiece.

Voldemort did so love to see the headmaster work, such cool, delicate precision bringing such exquisite pain. Severus was not like some of his others. His lip curled at the thought of Bellatrix, out of his favor for the moment, so crude, so bloodthirsty... so vilely…base. They were entirely unenlightened sadists. It had its uses, yes, but this, the expertise it took to reduce a living creature to the brink of insanity and hold them there, suspended, it was breathtaking. And of course there was Severus himself, singularly cold, the only one of his closest followers who faced him without any fear, the others gave off the stench of their terror, revealing what spineless dogs they were. Now Snape, he was a true serpent of Slytherin, his most favored Death Eater, for killing Dumbledore and signaling the end of _The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Die-A-Meaningless-Death_. More than that, his disdain of sullying himself in base debauchery as did his fellows appealed to Voldemort who had similarly given up such shallow pleasures for the attainment of true power.

He wondered what this was about. Severus did not usually like to parade his… subjects about. He was a private man, in all things, including his torturing. It was his greatest guilty pleasure.

"An exquisite job to be sure, Severus, but have you a purpose other than to show off your prize?" Voldemort drawled.

"I want this one, she knows something," as Snape spoke his gaze broke from red eyes to look down on the bundle of human suffering with something Voldemort did not quite recognize.

In another one of his followers the dark lord would call it greed, in a weaker man he might have named it adoration. In Severus, he decided it must be hunger, for the power even now visible bound tight to the bones of the creature.

"Then play with her again in the dungeons, she isn't going anywhere one or two more sessions and you will have your answers," It amused the Dark Lord how Snape's eyes narrowed at the chosen label for his work, no other would have dared. It told him how much Snape wanted this one.

"Therein lies the problem. The woman is a strong occlumens, it took this before I could finally break in to her mind, and yet the answer I seek is not there, or is obscured even from her."

The Lord, imperious, was already reaching out and walking forward Snape let him view the shivering creature in his arms. No matter the strength of Voldemort's legilimency, he would read nothing in her mind but pain, scattered, indecipherable memories and confusion.

Pulling back his lord blinked at the broken creature, "That is the mudblood chit who followed Potter. What could she possibly know that could be of any use?"

"I only know that she obscures it from me, or has erased it from her own mind. She is a very powerful witch."

A slow smile spread over Voldemort's face, so Snape was willing to admit it. He must want her very badly. Even Voldemort had to admit, the brush of her power, even muddled and broken by the drugs was sweet… but he did not need it. And Severus was so pleased, and so rarely asked for anything, not like the others, always grasping at things they did not deserve. Yes… he would let him have her a while at least. Snape would do more interesting things than Bella had managed, the dark lord was sure.

Voldemort leaned back in his chair studying Severus and the mudblood girl, and decided to torment the other just a little… after all it was such a gift he was about to bestow, "Why do you want her? If she has erased the memory even you will not be able retrieve it."

"She has been with the dementors for years. I believe they have taken the memory from her or obscured it from her mind. I am sure that time spent away from the bothersome creatures will reveal to me what I wish to know," Snape explained calmly.

The lord, growing bored of him and the girl, now that he had thoroughly enjoyed the morbid sight nodded absent permission and waved him off.

Bowing to the lord, Snape retreated with his prize. Not daring to believe the dark lord's generosity until the girl was safely in his home.

He had to walk up yet another flight of stairs (elevators were a security risk) before he was far enough from Voldemort's anti-Apparation wards to attempt it with his side-along passenger. After going to such trouble it would be a terrible waste to kill her now with undo haste.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, if I did I wouldn't be doing this with my life... anywhoo please send my muse reviews, she works in a dark and twisted place, for sweatshop pay. She gets by on your tips, please, she needs the money to feed her plunnies. She has over twenty mouths to feed at home, and the plunnies keep breeding!

Revised since last posting, no major plot changes.


	3. Chapter 3 - Ambiguity

Ch 3

Ambiguity

His home was not terribly large, though he could have had a mansion if he desired. It was a large, stone, cottage styled house, it was also deeply muggle and so far off the grid, even the Dark Lord would have been hard pressed to name his exact location if the need arose. It was a magically renovated muggle historical site that Snape had... taken possession of when the funds were presented him. Fairly spacious and sprawling, though all he really wanted or needed was room for his massive library and his lab. It was only ever in use a few months out of the year, the rest of his time was spent at Hogwarts. But if he ever needed a place to lay low for several weeks, this was the most comfortable and permanent of his bolt holes.

Entering he strode quickly to his lab laying the girl atop one of the empty tables. Wand instantly in hand he spoke the first of three healing charms, its cadence was rhythmic and he had been told it sounded like singing. At its completion the bleeding slowed. Satisfied, and needing to wait the requisite ten minutes before enacting the next stage he began to sort through his various potions, plucking them down as he considered her ills.

To his vast relief the shock of apparition had rendered her unconscious, and she lay quietly.

A concentrated restorative brew, some simple skele-gro, if she did not have outright breaks, then starvation would have rendered her bones weak and too brittle to support her, the essences of heal-all, comfrey, bone knit, arnica and murtlap tentacles, all were set beside a large cauldron. His hand hesitated over wit-sharpening solution, as a counter agent to the befuddlement brew she practically reeked off. He set it near the others, but did not think he would administer it. He was no fool… the moment she was able, her first thought would be his death. The beaker of Blood-Replenishing Potion was large and half empty for good reason, it was the most oft used of his draughts. Beside this was bruise-healing paste, in a jar large enough to require two hands to remove it from its shelf. He retrieved a small vial of re'em blood from a locked cabinet and a brew of strengthening solution he had been maturing for some weeks. Heart's Ease and lungwort, were also necessary. Starvation caused the body to strip nutrients from the muscles, in her state, she long would have been utilizing heart and diaphragm muscle to survive, who knew when one or the other would give out.

Potions were intricate things, all perfectly safe and inert alone, but if administered to the girl separately they would combine to horrific effect in her system. No they needed to be brewed together now, it would not be comfortable to consume, but Granger's insides would not liquefy.

Satisfied with this arsenal he returned to the being on the table. She was stirring, though still delirious with the pain of her wounds. He had designed the spell especially for this purpose, no normal healing incantations or potions could heal these cuts, and only he knew the counter curse, and it allowed him to heal his victims by degree, first to staunch the bleeding, but leave the violent pain as if all still bled freely, the second to seal the wounds and dull the pain, though only so his victim would cease their screams, then the third which removed the scars and erased the pain.

This time, his wand tip glowed faintly blue and as he chanted her cramped form relaxed back against the table. Her choked breaths softened to quiet panting. Glazed eyes took one look at her surroundings, she moaned softly, terribly afraid to have been taken to a new and probably more dreadful chamber of suffering than the one she had known with Bellatrix. She honestly felt horribly exposed and vulnerable due to the lack of her dark, windowless, underground cell, and the shackles which held her there. As pain scrabbled as her mind was, the only thing she could comprehend was that she was no longer there, where she knew what each and every change in her environment meant. She was here… outside… even the air was different, and it terrified her.

She closed her eyes to the sight and further unclenched pain cramped muscles, it was a strange and marvelous feeling to lie flat, momentarily unbound. She could not remember the last time Bellatrix had released her from her wall. The backs of her legs and shoulders were raw with sores so long had she been braced against the damp, rough stone.

She heard the swish of robes and knew her tormentor no longer hovered over her.

Her skin still seemed alive with his agonizing spell, though she knew the wounds now sealed, she could feel the knife tips embedded in her flesh, just twitching every now and then sending fresh jolts of pain, lightning her nerves on fire.

She knew she ought to take advantage of lying flat, with no immediate pain being inflicted to rest, truly rest, before she was once more strung up by her pulverized wrists. However despite her unspeakable exhaustion the irregular bursts of pain from unpredictable patches of skin kept her from unconsciousness. Without bonds to hold her it was difficult not to writhe, but she managed to preserve that slight dignity. She didn't know if it was a virtue of willpower or exhaustion and she wasn't asking too many hard questions.

An indeterminate amount of time passed before she heard the slight tap scuff of a booted step and the swish of robes beside her again. Reluctant, she opened her eyes. His looming form, all silent grace, seemed to speak of his terrible, subtle danger.

She saw his wand, already in hand and shivered, well aware she was unspeakably vulnerable. In the beginning pain sharpens the mind, then after a point it scatters the thoughts, finally obliterating them. Coherency was just beginning to return and her mind felt…squishy from more than the pain, the befuddlement brew would last another three days if she was not dosed again. After her little display of the patronus she did not expect he would be foolish enough to allow her to gain such a hold on her magic.

His voice was deep, and resonate with an incantation she had never heard before and she was stunned when soothing relief flowed over her burning skin like cool water.

"Be still, Miss Granger, you have lost an alarming amount of blood for one in your state," he stated calmly, sounding not at all like the deranged sadist who had been the primary cause of her blood loss.

The sudden alleviation of her most immediate pain had an almost euphoric effect on her, she giggled, only the slightest air of hysteria touching her tone, "Of course Headmaster, it would be terrible if I did myself more harm than already you have."

"Indeed," the man drawled turning away.

She watched quietly as he crossed the large room to a cauldron. Multicolored fumes rose from the container in thick ropes. The room seemed terrifically painfully bright to her eyes so long below ground, though there were only three narrow windows allowing brilliant beams of light into the chamber.

She breathed deeply analyzing the myriad of scents that issued from the cauldron, bits and pieces she knew, a hint of black beetle, something bitter that seemed to coat the back of her throat like soot… it was familiar, she concentrated closing her eyes, re'em blood, she had only ever used it twice. Once in a strengthening solution, another time in a powerful poison. The rest was too convoluted for her to distinguish.

The squares of sunlight crept across the flagstones, and she watched them mesmerized by the sight of natural light. At first it caused her eyes to water and burn, but it was too lovely a sight to give up for a pain so minor her conditioned mind hardly registered it. How long had it been… sunlight… her eyes had forgotten it.

He interrupted her sun-square-watching when he approached her table, the beaker in his hand now a murky orange, though the fumes were clear and caused the air above the potion to simmer, it smelled pungent and astringent.

When he reached for her she flinched, stilling instantly when his lips thinned. He set the beaker beside her, and once sure she would not resist slid his hand under her back. As he lifted her he felt pity stir as each of her vertebra pressed his palm, her shoulder blades standing out from her back by more than two inches.

"All of it," he ordered as he lifted the beaker to her lips.

The fumes burned her eyes, the first gulp burned like pure acetone on the way down. Tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes as she took another swallow, and another. Her mouth seemed raw, her stomach unaccustomed to anything more than water and gruel reacted violently.

The tumbler was only half empty. Desperate, sure she would retch, she turned her head to the side gasping for air. Snape tsked, his ire evident.

Weakly, she coughed, "Please, I will…please," closing her eyes she sucked in one breath, two, mastering her wayward guts.

Lifting her lips to the glass she continued to drink, it burned, like liquid fire, like acid…

Finally, the thing was done and she sagged in his hold, her hands gripping her sunken abdomen. The potion was roiling in her gut. She paled, a sheen of sweat standing out on her brow. With more care then she thought he was capable of he laid her flat.

Feebly she curled on her side clutching at her stomach, the pain was radiating outward. It was jagged glass in her veins, it was cold fire laid on her bones, it was needles behind her eyes and acid dripped on her skin, worst on her wrists and back and belly and chest, old wounds were hidden there beneath rough filthy sacking. Her breath burned in her lungs, noxious fumes.

What had he given her? What was happening to her body? She was dying, melting from the inside out. With effort she opened her eyes stared up at him.

Torture she understood, Bellatrix hated her, so she caused excruciating pain. It was simple. The woman was pure hatred, she was vengeance and mocking, smirking evil. With Bellatrix, Hermione was not a human she was just a creature with the ability to vocalize pain.

This was something else. Or if it were torture it was a breed she had not encountered in four years under the hands of those she would have named more…evil was not the word, perhaps bloodthirsty than he. He spoke to her as if she were human yet. He reminded her she had a rational mind and proceeded to rip it away, with such a show of power she trembled to remember it. Yet even this she would have understood had he given even the slightest hint of mocking, shown even a glimmer of the conqueror's smile. If he had reached out and grasped her while she was most broken as Bellatrix had many a time.

The woman would come to her, once her hands were painted in Hermione's crimson blood stroke her hair and face, clutching her victim to her breast, cooing softly, "You shouldn't make me angry my little mudblood. You know that. Shhh… be a good little mudblood, you know how to make me happy. You want to make me happy don't you?"

'_Yes. Mistress Lestrange. Yes.'_

Those cold, black eyes gave nothing away. He bathed vermillion in her blood and at the same time spoke calmly, orders as clear and concise as during any potion's class, no anger. What did he want from her? She was desperate for some ghost of expression on his face that would tell her he was only another tormentor, some glimmer of triumph that would allow her to obliterate her memories of him as a mentor and see him only for what he was now.

Her confusion was on display in eyes that screamed of anguish. He only stared down at her, his face stern, but neutral, dark eyes analyzing every convulsion, each twitch of her body, under the influence of his draught.

He had miscalculated, either her injuries were more severe than he had assumed and he had administered too little, or he had overestimated her current weight and given her too much. The mistake would need to be rectified.

With firm hands he pushed her flat on her back, skeletal hands set on wrists marked black and blue, and crusted in blood and pus he pulled from her caved in stomach setting them beside her hips on the table.

"Stay," he ordered, pleased when she complied.

It would be difficult to restrain her here and he did not want to mix more magic in her already overloaded system with a binding hex. For the same token he did not vanish the burlap scrap she wore, instead cutting it off of her with a handy lab knife.

The problem was almost instantly apparent, he had underdosed her, and the potion, spread too thin, was wreaking havoc on her fragile system. More scars then he could count layered her emaciated form, long gashes, two or three, down her sides oozed black, curse inflicted. Unhealed and festering burns made patterns across her sharply visible pelvis. He counted three, maybe four broken ribs, black purple blossoms.

Turning her on her side he inspected the open, sores that littered any section of skin that had pressed the wall for a prolonged time. He noted the deep, slick, scarring that lay sunken and whitish yellow over at least three fourths of her back. Gently he probed the unbroken skin noting her lack of response even to a good deal of pressure. Nerve damage, from the appearance of her burn scars… at least the patch on over her right shoulder blade would be permanent. Old scarred stripes cut the sunken burn scars in ropy red-purpled lines and told of a heavy handed whip. A quick diagnostic spell for internal ills, showed only what he had previously determined. He would not make the same mistake twice. Sure now, of the correct dosage, he carefully measured out the addition necessary.

Returning to the girl, he lifted her again, frowning when she turned her face aside.

"No more, please, no more," she begged feeble fingers scrabbling at his wrist in vain attempt to put the draught away from her.

"Drink," he insisted

"Please, it burns, it's killing me."

"Yes, the under dose I administered is doing more harm than good. I suggest you drink."

She stared at him, searching his face for some sign he spoke truth. Seeing nothing to assure her yea or nay she had no choice but to drink. She trembled as she lifted her lips to the tumbler, swallowing down the liquid fire. Snape satisfied, allowed her to curl up again. With a short word he summoned a thick towel draping it over her body.

The burlap sacking was consumed in a burst of bluebell flame.

Hermione groaned softly, it seemed as though the fires within had been stoked by the addition of fuel. Slowly she became aware of the fact that the pain in her abdomen was lessening. Slightly, to be sure, but she knew pain, had grown very sensitive to what every change in pitch and frequency and tone meant for her body. Though it seemed as if molten iron were being injected just under the skin of her limbs, her lungs were only stinging now.

By increments the pain evaporated from her core relief pushing outward into her limbs concentrating pain in her wrists. A short cry, bitten off almost before it began issued from her lips. It felt as though the bones of her wrists were being pulverized, shifted, reshaped, she could feel the skin being peeled back exposing bone, the muscle long laid waste to provide nutrients to heart and brain. Then that pain too receded.

She lay very still panting, her body shocked by the sudden cessation of pain. Peripherally, she was aware of Snape, he had not left her side.

"Sit up,"

Cracking her eyes she contemplated this order. Impossible, her wasted body informed her. But she tried, tried because that voice was still the voice of authority, the mentor, to a student. Bellatrix would laugh to see her stubborn, wayward, silent toy, asking how high when Snape said jump.

To her great surprise, though it was a struggle weakened as she was, her wrists supported her body with only a complaining ache. Pushing herself up, she glanced surprised at the clean, soft cloth that pooled in her lap, then with open shock at her own torso. Wounds had sealed invisible, scars old and new had vanished, burns healed over with patches of tender, pink flesh. More than that, an ounce or two of flesh clung to her hips and ribs, her stomach sunken almost to show her spine through her belly, now caved at a more moderate degree, an anorexic model instead of a concentration camp prisoner.

Snape surveyed his work with satisfaction. It would take more treatments, but the girl looked almost human now, the outline of muscle beginning to appear along the bones of her upper arms, her sunken cheeks now flat rather than concave. The only scars that remained were those wrought by dark magic, and these were few, most torturers preferred… physical means, the kinds of magic that left permanent marks was too costly to waste on anything less pressing than battle. Bruises still painted her almost translucent skin like ink stains left by a careless quill across parchment, but that could be remedied.

Catching one wrist, he studied his work, it had been misshapen, bones crushed and healed incorrectly so many times she had lost the ability to move her wrist. Now only vivid bruising showed the work of his remodeling. A fine tremor ran through her muscles, characteristic of an overload. He could only use necessary magic on her, nothing extra, her system was too fragile. Filling a beaker with water and taking a soft rag he washed what might have been years of grime, blood and sweat from her wrists. Sure hands spread a generous layer of bruise-healing paste over the discolored band. Bending her forward over her knees he cleaned her back. Pink, new formed skin showed where there had been open sores, but he was more concerned with the deep bruising left over from two healed ribs, that was bone deep, the rest was only superficial and would heal naturally.

"Attend to your front, only deep bruising, any more will overload your system," he instructed, handing her the rag and paste.

Dumbly she nodded, and taking it, did as she was told. Snape left her for a moment.

When she had finished, she wet the rag again cleaning her face and body as well as she could. She grimaced when her hair, long and matted with grime, fell against her. Glancing about she saw the knife he had set aside on the edge of the table.

Pulling one of the matted dreads over her shoulders she set about hacking it off at shoulder length. There was no saving the thing. She would have gone higher but her hands shook enough that she didn't want to risk it.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Snape appeared. His hand closed in a bruising grip over hers.

His upper lip was curled slightly in disgust and dark eyes were narrowed with anger, as a change from his cold indifference this blatant rage was terrifying.

"What do you think you're doing?" he hissed lowly his smooth voice icy cold, his fingers tightening in punctuation to his words.

Staring at him in shock, she blinked, and then cowered back, confused and frightened by his sudden, unprovoked anger.

"M-my hair, it's grimy, I wanted it off," she responded instantly, terrified of his fierce displeasure.

He studied her sharply, sure she lied. Then he noticed one of the scraggly hanks of hair, half sawed through hanging over her shoulder.

"Hn," he muttered removing the knife from her trembling hand with a twist of long fingers.

In the other hand he gathered the matted locks together behind her head. Deftly he flicked his hand cutting through the bundle just above his hand. He allowed what remained to fall in a ragged curtain to about chin level.

"If that cannot be salvaged, I will remove the rest. You are not to touch any sharp objects in this house. Disobedience will result in them being hexed." As he spoke he swept what remained of the terrifically unsanitary bundle off the table incinerating it with a word once it hit the flagstones.

Hermione wrinkled her nose at the smell of burning hair, jumping when something dropped into her lap.

It was a linen undershirt. Long, meant to fall to a grown man's knees it would cover her almost to her ankles. Pulling it over her head she rubbed the soft, well worn linen between her fingers, the cuffs fell well past her hands. Not unkindly, Snape grabbed her wrist rolling the sleeves up to reveal her fingers.

Studying the makeshift dress she wondered why he hadn't simply transmogrified the sleeves shorter. Then she remembered what he had said, magic overload. She had had so many spells set in her system for so long, compounded by the healing draught he had given her, any more magic either internal or externally in contact with her skin might put her into a coma.

She wondered for a moment if she should thank him. It seemed like something the old Hermione Granger would have done. But she was confused. He had tortured her, maybe the potion had been a mistake, but before that it had been torture. Worse than that he had taken her before the Dark Lord, before Voldemort, it was a tribute to her boys to never give him the power of his title at least not in the privacy of her own mind. She had been out of her mind yes, but she had felt him there, in her thoughts, tasting her pain with such undisguised pleasure. On the other hand, Snape had healed her, not just of the wounds he had inflicted to stop her from bleeding to death, but of more ills then she cared to remember long enough to name.

The woman who had survived four years of torture at the hands of Lestrange said, _'He is probably only doing so to torture you further. Perhaps he only likes to see his marks on his toys.' _

That concerned her… healed, dressed like a doll in his clothing, she had seen where such fetishisms lead, and none had ever been pleasant outcomes for her. Not if he so enjoyed her screams. He was more cunning in that than Bellatrix. For Lestrange screaming resulted in more pain because she liked the sound of it and not screaming resulted in pain as punishment for her silence. Hermione preferred to preserve her dignity if it made no difference otherwise. Snape spoke truly; vocalization was rewarded, not with a cessation of pain, but with less of it, perhaps more correctly with a lower pitch, for he might have continued in duration just as long, had she stayed silent. Perhaps only one who had been tortured for as long as she could distinguish that salvation, but it was one.

The Hogwart's student won out, even if he only meant to break her later, it did her no harm to delay the pain by playing his game, "Thank you, Headmaster,"

Snape paused and stared hard at her for a moment, he made no response. She could almost hear him asking, _'What in hell's name is wrong with you, you soft headed nitwit?'_

Shifting her legs to hang off the edge of the table he said instead, "Stand."

Looking doubtfully at the ground, which seemed a terribly long way down, and her frail, bony ankles poking like matchsticks from a book out from beneath his shirt she began to lower herself off the table.

Feet touched, it was cold. Her arms shook with the effort of holding her body upright, with difficulty she straightened her legs. Her body was so heavy. Her legs burned with the effort. She could stand, just barely, her fingers biting into the tabletop fiercely, her brow furrowed with concentration. She would not fall on her face. She would not fall on her face.

She did not fall on her face. The floor rose to meet her. Luckily, black clad arms intercepted her collision with the floor scooping her with almost mocking ease into a bridal carry as he exited the potions lab in long smooth strides.

From her perch Hermione watched several doorways pass them by, a few were open, partially or fully, she saw for an instant a bookshelf, in another there rows upon rows of shelves full of jars, and bottles, and sacks, a storeroom she assumed. She shivered slightly, his home was cold. She supposed that made sense. How much time would the man really spend here, a Death Eater and the Headmaster at Hogwarts? It was some surprise to her that Snape himself was actually quite warm. That too made a logical kind of sense, he was a human, and humans were warm blooded. But looking at his eyes, into his face, listening to his voice she had always expected him to be rather cool, like a snake, the same temperature as his surroundings.

There was a slight change in momentum when Snape put his shoulder into one door pushing the large, no doubt solid oak, door open. The air in here was marginally warmer, when he turned to face the room she saw a fire burned cheerily in the grate. It just seemed downright strange that apart from the dungeon…ahem the potions lab, dungeons had to be underground right? Anyway, old, school habits died hard, if it was a room, with Snape and potions in it, it was a dungeon.

Well, apart from the potions lab his home was remarkably…well normal, home-like, it was warm (in color if not actuality), mostly wood, and where there was stone it was irregular cottage-esque stonework. He only had two seats before the fire. She supposed he did not get many visitors here whom he wanted to make comfortable. Just a toffee colored armchair and footrest, with wood-work done in stately ebony on the ends of the arm rests and the legs of the chair and footrest. There was also a low love seat which had been draped in a white sheet. The love seat, what she could see of it, was a darker sepia tone, it complemented the toffee chair and had similar ebony accents on the legs.

And it was soft, soft and warm, because it had been drawn up close to the fire absorbing heat into its fresh smelling cushions. Cotton and sunshine and a hint of wood smoke, mmmhhhmmm.

After depositing her onto the makeshift bed, Snape watched her sink down onto the cushions with well disguised bliss her dark eyes fluttering closed for an instant as she relished the sensation.

"Sleep, then you may bathe," when he spoke she froze, eyeing him nervously.

Snape knew the move had been a massive shock to her system, long accustomed to the dark, damp of her cell, and it made her features fleetingly mobile. She was waiting, no doubt to be further assaulted, and if not, to be tied up, and thrown somewhere dark and damp to wait till he was in the mood to further assault her. He was entirely prepared to take necessary measures if the change proved too much shattering her fragile psyche.

"Are you just going to leave me here?" the 'where it is warm and comfortable and human' was unspoken.

"Yes, perhaps foolishly I am trusting you still have the mental capacity understand that you currently have neither the physical or magical capability to leave that spot. I see no need to be crude about the matter. If you do however choose to contest the issue, have no doubt I can and will do what is necessary to restrain you."

She was blinking at him, confusion swimming across her features. He did not have to be nice about it. And despite his disparaging glare, and condescension he was being nice. She could feel the apparition wards, but he had left her in a room with windows, and light, and warmth. He did not even lock the door.

The enormity of her sudden change in circumstance was frightening and she couldn't subsume her growing fear that all this would be going somewhere very bad, very quickly.

He retreated, allowing the girl to relax slightly. He was not concerned she would do anything foolish, at least not for a week or so. She was still too cowed to have been let out of that cell that had been her world for so long. Too afraid of what displeasing him might mean for her. After that he would need to seriously strengthen his personal wards… god only knows what lovely hex she would deem worthy of suitable payback for his… investment.

She needed to rest. It would be a terrible bother if she were to accidentally drown herself in the tub because he had crushed her mentally and physically, forced her body through a botched healing, rough even if he had done it correctly and then dumped her into a tub of water. If she didn't pass out and die, she might very well drown herself to spite him. And wouldn't that would be terribly ironic.

* * *

Welp, another chapter cranked out. I figured I ought to post just in case the world does end in the next few hours.

Much love, my lovelies, please drop a review to a lonely author.


	4. Chapter 4 - Unseen Wounds

Ch 4

Unseen Wounds

While the girl… the woman, she was now a woman, simple age put her there, but experience too. No one who had survived the war came out a child, and no one who survived four years of Bellatrix was left with any naïveté. He knew this well.

While the woman slept he set up the washroom in a manner conducive to her state. Near boiling water was summoned at a word, the trace amounts of magic necessary for summoning would dissipate in minutes. He placed a three legged stool inside the copper tub. It was only half full of water, no need to make drowning seem too tempting. Old fashioned lye soap, that was easy… what else did women use? Whole stores were devoted to this… Whole industries… he was coming up blank, memories of what his mother had used while they had lived, as his father desired, as muggles, were dim. They had not been happy memories.

He was familiar with the gushing overflow of cosmetic 'potions' sold. He found the fact that they were labeled potions all rather sickening.

Soap would do. She had been at the brink. Any excess magic might push her beyond the help or harm of any. Idly, he pondered if that would be for the best. This was not safety for her. It was the illusion of reprieve, and a cruel one at that. These thoughts he pushed with difficulty aside. He had made his decision. He would stand by it. It had become far too easy for him to make the decision to grant mercy…far too easy, something about Hermione had given him pause, and he was grateful for it.

Perhaps an hour later he returned for her. Dark eyes were open and watchful the instant he stepped into the room.

* * *

Her rest had been fitful and fraught with dark dreams, she rarely had any other kind. The smooth sheet she had been set upon was now rumpled and twisted under her thin form, and a fine sheen of sweat lay on her pale face.

Giving her a moment to orient herself to his presence he nodded to her and stooping slightly lifted her again. She blinked owlishly up at him her boney fingers gripping at his robes for stability, afraid for an instant, before she caught herself and released her grip, and turned her face forward.

She was well trained. Her fear was only one more thing they could steal from her. She refused to offer him even that satisfaction.

* * *

Entering the steam filled washroom he set her down on the edge of the tub keeping a hand on her back for balance. The flicker of surprise that he caught on her face for a brief instant, before she banished it, explained her stiffness when he had carried her here. He resolved to attempt to be less obscure. How was she to know he had not changed his mind, and wanted to hear her scream.

"Do you need anything else?" He asked dark eyes flicking over the articles he had laid out for her; a clean linen undershirt, a dry towel, soap…

"Umm, a comb if that's alright," the woman requested softly, itching to submerge herself in the steaming water.

Removing his balancing hand for an instant and observing her somewhat steady perch he turned to the cabinet below the sink setting the requested item beside the others. Damn if she wasn't just a scrap of a thing… stubborn though, and he was glad of it. They were both too proud, she to accept the help, and he to insist in offering it.

"I assume you can manage yourself from here, Miss Granger?"

The woman inclined her head, "I can."

Dark eyes scanned the room once more, besides the water there was nothing in her reach she could do much harm to herself with, then he gave her a nod and retreated closing the door with a faint thump.

Alone Hermione slowly stripped, mindful of her precarious balance. With caution she turned so her feet rested in the blessedly hot water. It hurt, a bit, but she could almost feel the grime being sanitized. In another show of extreme care she shifted herself to the stool Snape had so courteously left her. Pouring water over her body with cupped hands she dampened her skin before reaching for the soap.

A healthy lather and rinse later showed that many of her bruises were actually dirt, though just as many were not. She spent an inordinately long time removing the dark stains of filth from the creases of her hands, from her boney knuckles and under her broken nails… they would need trimming. Malnutrition had made them just as brittle as her hair, and they had broken to the quick long ago. She needed her hands clean, she could not bear the thought of the filth she had touched, further contaminating her, as foolish as the notion was… her hands were no more filthy than the rest of her.

She discovered that the dark blossoms over her ribs had dulled to yellowish green marks and she did not doubt that come morning they would be truly gone. As she slept her body had metabolized the potion and another ounce or two of flesh lay on her ribs, still painfully apparent, but she almost had something that might pass for the body of a human again. Her hips too had a layer of flesh on them, changing the knife sharp angles to more rounded points.

Satisfied with this inspection she soaped her body again, and yet again, and again until the strong lye began to sting the tender patches of newly healed skin and the red marks of her almost frantically scrubbing, raggedy nails began to show on her belly, breasts, and thighs. She was so dirty. The dirt and filth of that place seemed permanently imprinted. Hands shaking, she forced herself to cease her cathartic ablutions.

Carefully, she lowered herself off of the stool. The water was not high, but she made do lying back until the, hot, almost scalding, blessedly blazing water rose to her chin then up over her head as she wet her hair. Sitting up she set about scrubbing set in dirt out of her shorn locks.

One wash, almost black liquid rinsed out, two had a grayish rinse. By the fourth, her hair rinsed almost clear. She repeated the process once more for certs. Then she took the comb to it.

Almost immediately it stuck in the snarled dreads. Gritting her teeth, Hermione began ripping the thing through her hair, no movement, damn.

Taking a deep breath she took both hands to the comb pulling viciously down on the instrument. The snarl gave way with a sudden, painful snap and her hands flew free, one striking the edge of the tub hard. The resounding crack seemed multiplied by the copper of the tub.

Hermione frowned shaking her hand, still numb from the force of the blow, blood trickling from her knuckles. She was dipping it down into the water when the door swung open.

* * *

Snape froze in the doorway his eyes stuck on the tableau before him. Two dark eyes stared at him out of a stark face, quite beautiful now that bruises and starvation had been magicked away. Hair, no longer black, but dark auburn with water which trickled down her long neck onto a pair of soft breasts, paler than the finest porcelain…

Then reality set in and he saw her shoulder blades, sharp enough to cut the tension in the air, each sharp ridge of her spine, the yellowing bruises littered down her left arm, her arms so thin, like twigs, set with wrists, too large, bruised, attached to the hand, trickling blood, clamped across her breasts in a hasty attempt to cover herself. Worse, the blankness of her dark eyes, too jaded to know fear, just waiting, watchful, as the hare cornered before the snake accepts its end.

Regaining himself he spun on his heel staring hard down the hall. He was not blind and he was male, but this was Miss Granger.

Clearing his throat he spoke, his voice perfectly bland, "Watcher wards set on my home, Miss Granger, sensed the blood. How have you managed to harm yourself?"

There was silence from behind him and he was tempted to turn his head, stare her down until she answered, but refrained. Then he heard the slight swish of water and she spoke her voice soft so soft, someone who knew when not to draw attention to themselves. _'Don't see me. Don't be interested. Don't come closer. Don't touch me.'_

"Just the hand, Headmaster."

"How?" he prodded sure he had left her no such resources.

"Cracked the knuckles on the side of the tub, Sir," she supplied still in that soft, please don't notice me tone.

"Why, prey tell, did you do that, Miss Granger?" he asked his tone once more restored to its indifferent, lazy drawl.

"The comb got tangled in my hair… I think you'll need to take the rest off, if it isn't too much trouble…" she admitted sounding saddened by this fact.

He was quiet for a breath, then two, coming to his decision.

"I could try something."

* * *

It was not phrased as a question, but she responded to the one implied in his low tone, when he was not angry or irritated he did have a pleasant voice, she suspected he offered to help in lieu of an awkward and stilted apology for his sudden entrance.

"Yes, Sir,"

The door shut with a thump and Hermione released a choked breath. She basically hadn't breathed since he burst in. Breathing made noise and provoked movement, both things which could draw unwanted attention.

Reaching out she grabbed up the hand towel near the sink laying it over her front before sinking back down into the water her back to the doorway. It covered her from collarbones to high on her thighs. Tucking her legs up to her torso she hugged this physical shield closer resting her chin on her knees. Taking a deep breath she swallowed down terror. Enough time to fear later… he was coming back.

A firm knock announced his entrance this time and she responded with an affirmative to an inquiry about her decency.

Turning her head she cast a wary eye over him, no scissors or knives, just a capped, tinted glass flask, somewhat soothed by the lack of obviously dangerous items she turned her face away listening to the slight scrape as he drew up a stool behind her. She felt slight pressure on the top of her head, his hand.

"May I?"

Mute she nodded slightly.

Something cool was poured onto her head, she was uncomprehending till a large, viscous drop rolled down the side of her face, dripping onto her shoulder, creating a skein of rainbow across the water droplets clinging to her skin. The sensation of yet more slick fluid sliding down the back of her neck made her breath stutter in her lungs.

His hand, large, warm, just slightly roughened with callous, rested on the back of her neck.

"Miss Granger,"

"Y-yes, Sir," she forced out between quivering lips quickly clamped into a thin, hard line.

"It's olive oil," the unspoken, '_it won't hurt you, you halfwit_' made it almost seem a kind statement.

"Oh," she whispered in a wounded gasp, "last time, it was lamp oil."

The pressure of his hand increased slightly in silent inquiry.

"Lamp oil, is what he poured on my skin when they first had me, on m-my hair, and other _places_…"the way she stressed the word let him in on their unmentionable nature.

Her breath caught as several more droplets of oil rolled down her forehead, his hand on the back of her neck, large, touching her shoulders and back, tightened demanding she speak.

Her voice was thick and slow, but did not quaver, "And he…lit it on fire, said it was to make me smooth, down there, to play with me…and then he did."

His touch was gone in an instant, "I will leave you. When you are dry and dressed, I can cut it off."

"No!"She exclaimed, turning her head to catch his eyes, revealing a face so pale, the jaw clenched tight, blue veins and blood purpled muscle showed through translucent skin like crushed lavender, lips pressed taut, thinned, nigh invisible, "Please, I don't want to cut it all off. I'm sorry, Sir, I won't say anything else."

Her dark eyes looked wounded and pleading. He realized then, she thought she had offended or disgusted him. Her apology was for speaking at all.

Reaching out he deftly wiped the oil, which had dripped down her face, off. Then he firmly turned her face forward. Large hands ran through her short, short locks coating them liberally in the slick substance. Hermione had to suppress the desire to shiver at the simple gentleness of human contact, she hadn't gotten a lot of touch that wasn't intended to maim in longer than she liked to think about.

Taking a comb he began to patiently tease the tangled mat, her hair had become, smooth.

After several minutes he spoke, his voice soft and low, like a great cat's purr, "Many have called me cruel and heartless, and they are more correct then they know, but I am not obscene. I may come to you with a kind of living death in my hands, but I will not make use of your gender to break you."

"What are you doing to me?" she asked, referring not to this moment, but to the whole of his interaction with her from the dementor's kiss to his soft, sure declaration, not of safety, but of a kind of honor that in this place, at this time, after all she had seen and experienced meant more than some meaningless declaration of 'safety'.

What was safety to a world where Voldemort reigned? What, really, was decency or honor, for that matter?

Severus Snape, her mind replied. The rightness of that answer was less paradoxical then it might seem. Every 'Good' man she had known was dead, the kind of honor and decency they acted upon ashes with them. But there was a difference she saw now, in kinds of honor, one is the straightforward breed, the honor of knights on white horses, of kings who rule golden lands, of generals who never lose wars, the kind of honor Harry had, the kind Ron had. But Honor is for more than the fairy tale, honor must live in reality, and reality is a dark place where 'Great' men and not good men had to make choices. Bad choices, choices that killed hundreds and saved thousands. The kind of choices that made villains in story books and survivors in reality.

Honor… but it was true, he was swearing to his own personal Geneva convention. A code of war, he might give her death and pain, but no shame, not for either of them.

"Something foolish," he replied after a time, "I am doing something terribly foolish. You are the last, you understand, of the golden trio. Voldemort will not let you die, he wants…a memento. But, for the moment, he has forgotten you. He may remember in a week, in a month, or in a year, but until then, I have in my power the ability to…offer sanctuary."

"And when Voldemort remembers?" she asked calmly as if she did not quake internally to hear the answer.

"Then, you will most probably have before you a choice. Return to Bellatrix with the dark lord either as an audience or receiving reports often, or you may stay in my custody. You will do well to remember my standing at the Dark Lord's right hand is not artifice. I have killed and tortured, I will do so again. I am not Bellatrix. I am the one who the Dark Lord comes to when someone has truly displeased him. I have done things that no human should do to another. If I had had you first I could have broken a mind as strong as yours in a week, no more. But unlike the forsaken creatures who find themselves in my hands you will not have a single piece of information you can tell me that will make it end. There is nothing you have, but screams that Voldemort wants to hear. It would not end, in a week, two for unlucky ones, in a clean death when I have my scrap of information. It would go on. I would not kill you. You would not die, no matter how much you craved the mercy. Bellatrix, at the least, will grow careless again and kill you one day. She practically already has."

"Because Severus Snape is not careless," Hermione said slowly.

"Not if he wishes to remain in Voldemort's good graces, not if the student's of Hogwarts are to be protected. The two are part and parcel. You, Hermione Granger…are some terrible foolishness on my part."

And that she did not doubt for an instant. Perhaps she was a fool to trust at all, after what she had experienced… but what purpose would such a lie serve him? What hope did he offer only to rip away, that she had not already suffered? What harm was there in believing in the pale sanctuary he claimed he could provide?

It was his blunt, assertion that he would hurt her again, that allowed her to find peace in his words, only the truth could be such an ugly thing.

* * *

He could draw the comb though her hair from temple to the nape of her neck smoothly now and the rounded teeth of the comb seemed to caress her scalp. The quick shearing was less disastrous than he had thought. It was marginally better than a chin length slave market clipping, shortest at the back, baring her nape, it lengthened toward the front about four inches below her chin. She looked younger without her mane of hair.

When she had been very young, just a first year, that bushy mane was her signature, but as she grew, became a woman, in that last year of… sanity that he had known her, it became a smooth, wildly curling mane of honey gold. Like some regal lion or one of the great enchantresses of legend, a golden Morgana, wild, tangling elf locks thrown out behind, a flowing cape denoting her power and nobility. In a way she had been turned back into his young, eager student, just begging to be challenged, pushed on to greatness, by every adversity, including him, yet black eyes well remembered a grown woman's body, and old, old eyes. So instead, he felt he had stripped the sorceress of her crowning glory. He repeated the action of combing her hair, several times, just touching her in a way that was not touching her, though it was unnecessary now that he had accomplished his task.

It was an intimacy that insulated her from the pain his hands had caused, a bridge that preserved her modesty and allowed him to be…soft with her in a manner he did not permit himself to be with many. He could not comfort her verbally. He was not a man who knew the words to say, but more than that, there was nothing he could truthfully say that would bring her comfort. Besides, he knew that the simple human touch would do more to mend her broken, fearful psyche than anything else. It was possible to drive men mad if they were simply left alone without any casual human contact, that's what made Azkaban so effective. Her captivity had not been solitary, but he doubted she had been touched gently in a very long time, and it cost him nothing, despite the strangeness of it, to give her the small comfort.

* * *

She hummed softly deep in her throat relishing the sound of her name, _her name_, from a friendly voice, it didn't matter that it was a voice that had tormented and taunted her for six years, in fact that made it more real. She would never conjure in her own mind a soft word from, of all people, Professor Snape. When she sometimes broke down, her comforters were Molly, Ron's lovely sweet mother, they were Dumbledore with his gentle voice and seemingly unbreakable strength, sometimes it was McGonagall with her strong hands and her encouraging Scottish burr. Rarely, ever so rarely, when it was very bad, when she was sure Bellatrix would really kill her, she heard her own mum and da, helpless to aid her in any way in this mad world, but there in her mind, waiting with words of familiar comfort and old hope.

"Could you do it, and not give yourself away?"

"Could I make your life a living hell? More easily than you know," he responded in low warning tones, "You should not make your decision now."

She nodded, and suppressed a sigh when he finally stopped caressing her head, strange to go from blind terror of his touch to missing it in the space of a conversation. There was a slight scrape of the stool and the swish of cloth as he rose. She turned her head and watched him. He did not look at her, setting his gaze firmly on his hands. Strong, broad shoulders bowed slightly forward as he washed oil from long, pale fingers. She could see his eyes averted, carefully not studying her or his own face in the glass as he bent over the sink. His eyes cast about for the hand towel before catching sight of it over her water damp and oil slick shoulder. Ripping his eyes away he shook his hands absently, nimble fingers rolling down the black sleeves of his frock. Before he'd done so she'd caught a glimpse of the dark mark upon his inner left forearm and shivered… glad when it was once more concealed beneath black wool.

"Do you need anything?" he inquired eyeing his hands as he procrastinated over the buttons.

"Clean water if it's not hard, more grime in my hair then you would believe," she said softly.

He nodded, "Drain the tub I can dump in more, a summoning spell set on the cauldron shouldn't alter the water."

The door was left open this time and left alone she resituated the towel which had scrunched up at her waist and pulling the drain on the tub. She wondered vaguely why he did not have plumbing attached to his tub. Then she noticed, only one knob on the sink, he had cold plumbing and heated the water by magic. It was curious, old fashioned and made her wonder about the age of the home… it was very old for a muggle home, but for a wizarding home…all was as it should be. Yet it did not have the feel of an ancestral wizarding home. There were no old wardings sunk right down into the very earth beneath the foundations, no, these wards were strong, far beyond her current abilities, but newer, and not yet an innate feature of the home, as say the Black family's wards upon Grimmauld Place's were. The wards on that home would remain and hold strong for generations after the deaths of all of the home's owners… long after the very last of the blood died out, Draco, she supposed, though he would not acknowledge the kinship. These wards… they would dissipate within years of the caster passing beyond the veil.

"Miss Granger," she heard and quickly pressed back up against the side of the tub closest to the door. Seconds later, Snape entered, a large cauldron hovering about an inch off the ground in his wake. He stayed on the threshold guiding it the rest of the way in.

She smiled, as gloriously hot water rose to cover her shoulders. It was a gift, and a sign of trust in her sanity.

"Thank you, Headmaster."

He inclined his head, then frowned slightly, just now picking up on this particular speech pattern. He recognized the impulse, the terms of respect snuck into her speech when she was grateful, or especially frightened, when she wanted to secure his goodwill. It was instinct honed under Bellatrix telling her to grovel.

"If being called Headmaster is the result of calling you Miss Granger, perhaps I should call you Hermione," He did not know if it was the right move, but perhaps the informality would impress on her that he was not here to control her… at least not more than was necessary for both of their safety.

"I would like that, Professor," she hesitated over the title unsure what his sudden about face from cold and forbidding headmaster… to whatever it was he was trying to be now. But gods did it feel wonderful to hear her own name…

He flinched. He did not like to remember he had taken a student of his, someone he had a duty to safeguard, under a torturer's baton.

"Severus, Hermione, your professor I am no longer and the title Headmaster has long only referred to one man in my mind."

They both shuddered at the reminder and the door closed with a dull thump.

* * *

**A/N**: My early Christmas present to you, dear readers, though it's not very happy-making I grant. I feel guilty hurting Hermione during Christmas… just a bit. Don't worry, it will get better for her soon, so be a love, leave me my gift in the form of a review and I'll work hard to post the next chapter by Christmas.

All the love to my reviewers, you make my day.


	5. Chapter 5 - Cold Comfort

Ch 5

Cold Comfort

As soon as she was sure he could no longer hear her Hermione sunk down below the water. Holding her breath she stared up through the thick insulating layer of liquid watching the lights above dance. God, he had killed Dumbledore. How did one let something like that just slip one's mind?

It was horrible. It wasn't like the other things. He had done that. Eyes wide open, no remorse on his face. He had not stood by and let it happen, he had not known and told no one. There was only him to blame. Yes, he had killed one of greatest men Hermione had ever known… and why? For what? To ensure they would fail?

And even if she accepted that he'd done it for some good reason…

Would it be like that when he came for her? Would it be enough for her to know he didn't feel the disgust she would see in his eyes? Would it sustain her if it didn't end in a brilliant green flash, but went on for months, for years? Could she endure what Bellatrix had done, so crudely at the hands of a true master?

Could she even trust him when he told her he was trying to help her?

Why?

Lungs burning, she let her body float to the surface, just her nose and mouth breaking the surface to gasp at air.

Grabbing blindly for the soap she lathered her hands running them through her hair. Before it had felt rough and fragile, tangles snapping off in her fingers like dry grass, but the oil had made her hair silky again. Rinsing she stayed beneath the water for as long as she could, she had never really mourned them all. After Dumbledore's death she had to be strong for her golden boys… everyone always thought Harry was the strong one. They were wrong. Her boys needed her, not for her smarts, though that helped, not for her strength, for though she rarely let on she had been Harry's equal in a duel. She had the ability to keep a cool head, and many more spells in her arsenal, it made up what she had lacked in raw power…though after her time with Bellatrix, her mind was stronger. Her power too was greater, so long has she been grasping at threads of her drained magic, or it would be if she were ever allowed to grasp the whole of them. No her boys had needed her to be their center, to be calm and strong for them, so that when they broke down and cried she could gather them together in her arms and tell them it would be alright. Even if it was a lie.

There had been no one there for her when she had erased herself from her mother's mind. There had been no one to hug her tight when her da looked at her like a stranger, politely shook her hand, and showed her to the door with a blank smile. There had been no one alive for her when the Weasley's were killed, all together in their home, Disapparation jinxes keeping them from escaping their death. And Harry…oh Harry… There had only been survivors to drag away from the field when McGonagall had fallen. Then there had been Neville and Luna, one missing a leg, the other out of her mind with worry and fear. She had hidden them for as long as possible. She had kept them _safe_. Then they had been found, all of them, and at Luna's crazed pleading look she had killed them both, killed them before Neville could meet the same fate his parent's had.

There had been no time to mourn, for then Bellatrix had had her. They had been gone, gone, gone. She had sent them on their way. She had soothed their tears and healed their hurts and held their hands as they passed on. Was this how the Valkyrie maidens felt, forever bringing warriors to their eternal rest and never going on to that rest themselves?

Why was there no one for her?

Hot, salty, bitter tears silently joined the bathwater. It was good to mourn them. They had been the best, all of them the most wonderful, pure things in the world. Anyone who survived was no longer like them, was no longer something good.

When her eyes stopped stinging and the water was tepid she rose. Lifted herself on shaky legs onto the lip of the tub. A glance in the mirror told her that nothing but steam pinked her skin, her face was solemn, pale, and still, but she could recognize herself now, her face was no longer a skull with sunken eyes.

Her legs were frail still and shook violently as she lifted herself across to the stool he had sat on. She took her time toweling off, and still more time getting her hair to a honey gold halo about her face, all curls and waves. Then she pulled his soft linen shirt over her head pulling it down over her too thin body. Satisfied, she wrapped her arms around herself, a comforting embrace. It almost seemed as if someone else held her close, the smell of Severus was strong, all around her, steeped into his shirt, it was pleasant, it was the smell of cool, clean stone, of simmering potions, of old books and yellowed parchment, her small hands were wrapped in his long sleeves so she could not feel them, cold, small, boney appendages pressing into her sides, the air here was so warm it was almost a human warmth, it was so close to the comforting embrace she craved…a warm tear fell down the side of her nose.

It was moments like these she knew Bellatrix had had her too long.

With effort she opened her eyes to banish the powerful illusion of her mind. Black lay over her like a pall, but the warmth on her back did not dissipate. Turning her head, she saw Severus stood at her back warm hands set on the backs of her shoulders where she could barely feel, his face was set and coolly detached his eyes averted from her face, stoically forward, but there was warmth in his touch, there was a comfort in having his robes lying warm and dark over her shoulders like leathern dragon's wings. So when he lifted her into his arms she lay quietly against his chest and did not fear where he was taking her. When he laid her down onto the loveseat before the fire, seated himself in the armchair beside her and rested one large, warm hand on her hair she let herself enjoy the sensation instead of waiting for that hand to tighten viciously and lift her by the roots.

"Why did you do it?" she asked quietly.

The hand in her hair twitched slightly, afraid he would remove his touch she wished she had stayed silent.

"He said he had to die. He wanted it to be me. Christ, he ordered me to do it myself." The last came out so soft she barely heard it.

She opened her eyes and followed the long, black clad arm up with her eyes to the face with dark, haunted eyes that reflected the flames… hell's flames licking at his tortured mind.

She believed him.

His dark eyes flicked to her amber, and then away, "It can be done you know. Intent, is different from hate. I have done so…many horrific things… on strength of will alone. Only Bellatrix would tell Potter it takes hatred, an enjoyment of pain, that boy, he didn't understand."

Hermione closed her eyes, she knew, she knew all too well, "I know, I…I killed them, Neville and Luna, they wanted it… I had to. I didn't want Bellatrix to have us all. I couldn't let her have Neville."

His hand tightened in her hair and he lay his head back staring up at the timbered ceiling, for a moment the hellish flames vanished from his obsidian eyes, "Can no one survive in this madness innocent?"

"No, our generations were cursed, at seventeen we made a choice, good or evil and it turns out the choice didn't matter… the good died and the survivors…well, here we are."

"Sleep, it was… right of you to set them free."

Hermione sighed, "What a terribly clean way to put it…I almost want to have gone with them…but that can't be right. I want to live."

Snape brushed warm fingers across her forehead smoothing her furrowed brow, "Hold that, hold that thought."

'You must want to live, you must fight for it… please… for the both of us. I who cannot die, though I crave it, you who can die all too easily… weak fragile creature you are… you must not let me snuff you out.'

Snape watched her face smooth as sleep came over her features. Gently, he removed his hand from her hair, though the fine silky tendrils seemed to cling to his fingers, and leaned his head back into the chair. It was different for him, Dumbledore's death was supposed to be necessary, according to the plan it lead to Potter growing strong without leaning on Dumbledore and destroying Voldemort. The plan had been shot to bits when Voldemort had killed Potter in a blast of Avada Kedavra. Years of betrayal, of double dealing, of committing horrific atrocities at the dictate of a madman, had been rendered pointless when the Golden Trio had been captured. Hermione had gotten a hand on the wandless Weasley boy and had been reaching for Potter rendered weaponless as well, when the foolish Gryffindor had pushed her helping hand away. As his friends disapparated, he had willingly stayed to face Voldemort, the fool. Snape had had to watch Lily's eyes close in death, again.

How he had hated the boy who was his father, yet also his mother. He had not expected it to hurt so badly when he died. It was as though he had killed Lily twice, failed in the one thing he had set out to do, protect her boy, the only thing left of her in the world. Not for love of the boy… for love of the mother, the mother with her fiery hair, and green, green eyes, for Lils.

Really, he should have thanked the boy, he had not been able to recall the exact color and shape of her eyes in years. But now, even the boy was dust, and again for all his efforts, he was to blame.

Longbottom and the Lovegood girl had been as good as dead already. They had survived longer than most, survived past all hope of redemption, past all hope of victory. Killing them had been a coup de grace. Dumbledore had fallen when there had still been hope, when Potter could still have defeated Voldemort… and perhaps, just perhaps, he might have done it had he had Dumbledore's guidance a little longer. Perhaps Potter would have survived Voldemort if he hadn't spent his last second of life trying to kill, not the Dark Lord, but Dumbledore's murderer. In fact, he probably would have escaped with Hermione if he hadn't been so blinded by vengeance.

So many years, so long had he worn the mask of a traitor… perhaps it was true now. No longer a mask, but reality. He hardly knew what he was doing. Oh, intellectually it was very clear. He was the only thing standing between the students of Hogwarts and Voldemort, but really, what kind of a world was he sending them into? How much protection was he really affording them when, often, too often, it was he who brought their parents to their knees, it was he who ripped their minds from them, and sifted through their every memory like so much sand, and he who ended them in a flash of green?

How often did he teach children whose parent's he had brutally tortured and murdered the night before? How many more of those children would he be torturing in a few years? Already he had taken Miss Granger, Hermione, his most brilliant, eager student, under his hand, drawn agony from her lips like song till her voice broke and she could not think to scream. He would probably do so again.

Great gods, there was such evil in the world and he was a very central part of it.

* * *

When Hermione opened her eyes the fire had burned to ash and the room was dark and chill. Though she acknowledged, she was still far warmer and more comfortable than she had been in years. She heard a soft noise and jumped slightly her eyes scanning the gloom. Again…it was… a soft breath. As eyes adjusted to the dark she could make out, in the shadowy darkness of the chair beside her head Severus's pale face, his hands also visible on the upholstered arms.

Pushing herself up, she reached across and touched cool fingers to the back of his hand.

His eyes snapped open instantly, his hand flipping and capturing her in a bruising grip, the dim moonlight coming in the windows glimmering in the whites of his eyes.

"Severus?" she faltered, aware suddenly that it might be unwise for her to startle such a man awake. There was nothing even remotely speaking of the gentleness he had treated her with this evening, only the cold predatory analysis of a man who had served in the front lines of two wars. She had spent too long with such men to not know the exact meaning of his bruising grip and tense body.

His eyes scanned the dark room again and he cleared his throat, "Is something amiss, Hermione?" he intoned in a voice that spoke of careful apology as her hand was released.

"No, but it occurs to me your neck will be abominably painful come morning if you do not move to your own bed, Sir," she risked, feeling marginally safer now that he no longer crushed her hand in his, ready to strike if she proved a threat.

"hn…lumos," he muttered causing a dim light to shine from his wand tip.

She realized then it had been in his hand, poised to kill, from the moment his eyes had opened. Slowly, he stood keeping his wand light carefully from her eyes.

"Thank you for your concern. Will you be comfortable here?" he asked flicking the light over her body, courteously avoiding her face again.

She had curled into a small ball on the loveseat knees still drawn close to her body though she had propped herself up on her elbows momentarily…she looked cold.

"Most comfortable sleeping arrangement's I've been offered in longer than I care to say." She murmured in a sleep filled voice as she sank back down into a ball.

The move was contrived, he could see the tension in her shoulders and felt her sudden wariness, the walls of formality and submission she was throwing up as fast as she could. She was very good at acting her part. Studying her he nodded to himself and left the room, a few steps down the hall yielded the linen closet and he pulled a winter down comforter from its depths. It smelled heavily of cedar and lavender, utilized to keep moths at bay, but it was clean. Tucking this under his arm he returned to his hearth dropping the thick duvet over the woman on his couch. He really should have considered it earlier, but he had not expected to fall asleep. He could feel the chill of the house through his robes, and she wore nothing but an undershirt.

He heard a soft exclamation of surprise, then after a moment a soft, but very clear and lucid word of thanks. He hesitated in the door listening to the soft rustlings as the girl tucked herself securely into the blankets regaining her compact curled position on the loveseat.

Satisfied he quietly sought his own bed.

* * *

Whoo! I feel so productive, all the chapters, I hope everyone had a lovely Christmas, I know I did. I think I ate on and off for a solid 5 hours. It was grand.

Enjoy your holidays and my promised update a little late due to my food coma that just recently lifted.

Thanks to those who reviewed, it makes my muse happy.


	6. Chapter 6 - Children and Dead Men

Ch 6

Children and Dead Men

Hermione slept fitfully, dreams haunting her as they had not when she had only been able to doze lightly in her bonds. Now able to rest deeply, memory wove with the madness that plagued her mind spinning dreams of such dark, vivid, terrible, wonderful, tortured, touching clarity she felt wearied by the task of living them.

…

She saw Neville and Luna once more begging for death. Saw their tearstained cheeks touch and hands clasp. She saw Luna turn her pale, silvery eyes, so darkened and turbulent with a fear that bordered on madness for months they seemed smoky gray, clear and grow purely silver once more as they turned to look on her with such untainted gratitude before the girl lay down on her side staring into Neville's pained face.

Their faces were forever peaceful now.

Kneeling over their still, still bodies her hands fluttered helplessly, patting faces, forever in repose, grasping hands that would not return the pressure.

"Luna, Luna, please, don't leave me! We can make it. I'll get us out of here. I'll get us out!"

Only silence met her pleas. Desperate and trembling with fear she clutched at Neville's only remaining arm, reality said he had only lost a leg, but her dreaming mind made everything so much worse, "Please, I'll figure the curse out Neville. I almost had it. Don't give up on me!"

In her mind she clutched desperately at her friends till rigor mortis set in, till they lay cold and still upon the floor, yet she still could not leave them.

In life she had been unable to cast her spell till the Death Eater's were literally upon them, she had pleaded with them, to see reason, telling them that they would get out. Though all of them were unable to Apparate, trapped, but Luna had only shook her head and looked trustingly at Hermione, said nothing, did not even tremble when the Death Eaters burst upon them. There had been no time, and Hermione knew she could not put her classmates through what was coming. Their attackers had approached cautiously, wary of her wand, had leapt for cover when she had cast the Unforgivable. She would forever remember Bellatrix's crazed laughter as her schoolmates breathed their last, their life snuffed out at her hand.

XxX

She saw them both hands clasped, smiling softly at her, Neville whole once more, Luna humming dreamily as she spun around him like a butterfly held to earth only by a gossamer thread she had anchored to the boy.

"Hermione," came her dreamy tone, "Don't cry!"

"I'm not crying," Hermione responded woodenly watching her schoolmates play like the children they were.

Glancing over her shoulder, at Hermione, Luna smiled her absent smile, "You're crying, in here," she tapped her temple for emphasis, "You should not cry."

…

She watched McGonagall die, her body severed in half by a curse Hermione had never seen. Dueling four Death Eaters, she had been unable to block the spell that flew at her back. Blood had spurted like fountains, and what remained of her body had crumpled like a dandelion loped off by some macabre weed eater.

But Hermione had heard the Headmistress's final, sharp order.

"The students, Miss Granger, get them out!"

In reality she had gotten a group of fifteen to safety before returning for Luna and Neville.

In the dream she failed. The students dropped where they stood, their face's marked by agony, confusion, and fear frozen in glazed eyes. In her mind, she did not even manage to pull Luna and Neville from the rubble.

Neville was dead, blood no longer spurting from his severed limbs. Luna would not leave him, kicked and scratched when Hermione tried to drag her away. Died with his name on her lips.

XxX

She was seated in a chair in the Gryffindor commons a warm purring bundle in her lap. Absently she stroked the creature.

"Oh, Crookshanks…" she sighed in pleasure tangling her fingers in the downy hairs behind the feline's head as she looked down at her beloved pet.

She blinked, it was not Crookshanks. Orange melted into gray. Bright emerald eyes stared up out of a silver tabby's face and the cat continued to purr steadily.

Hermione's chest tightened, as the cat stood in her lap rubbing its cheeks against her face.

Its soft fuzz clung. She told herself her face was damp with sweat, but the cat's rough tongue scraped gently up her chin and cheeks banishing the saline trails.

…

She saw, through the fast fading tunnel of apparition, Harry fall, his face twisted with hatred and pain.

"Run, Hermione!"

Run he said. He should have followed his own advice.

XxX

They were in 12 Grimmauld place Harry was beside her chatting happily about some Quidditch team or another. His hands gesticulating excitedly as she watched him over the edge of the heavy tome in her hands. She felt Sirius, a black wolfhound, lying over their feet his mammoth head resting in Harry's lap. He would reach down and scratch his godfather's ears occasionally.

"They did good. Hermione. It was a bad, game. There was no winning it, but you lost well."

…

Ron, bleeding, broken, wandless as she dragged his too heavy body to The Burrow in desperation.

She had thought they would be safe there, for a night, while he recovered. He hadn't been well enough to leave with her come morning…

"You go get Harry, I'll catch up in a day or two," he'd told her with a brave smile, though they both knew she was only going back to look for the body.

She should never have left him behind.

Though she had not been there to hear the screams in real life, she heard them now, nearly all of them; Ron, Ginny, their parents, Molly and Arthur, George, Bill and Fleur. Gone, all gone…captured, cornered, caught and killed. Fred and Charlie had only lived weeks more, falling in Hogwarts familiar halls.

Only Percy survived… she never did learn what became of him… he hadn't been at The Burrow… he hadn't been at the final battle.

XxX

In her mind they were all together, a happy, busy breakfast at the Burrow. Ron was beside her, wolfing down a meal as usual. Ginny chattered happily and Molly watched over her domain with pride. The twins were watching Charlie with far too much concentration to not have tested a new WWW product on their unsuspecting sibling. Arthur was absently munching his waffles gesticulating with a piece of waffle speared on his fork about the contents of the Daily Prophet. Bill and Fleur were holding hands, quietly happy. The feeling of family just engulfed her and she smiled.

"More waffles, dear? You're far too skinny!" the matronly red head inquired patting Hermione's hair affectionately.

…

There were so many others. More than she could bear to see. It hurt her.

She woke early, with the rising sun, determined to avoid such deep sleep again.

* * *

When Snape entered his sitting room he expected Hermione to be sleeping. Had expected her to sleep till noon or past, days even, that's what healing magic did to a person, but the instant he set foot in the room her amber eyes flicked from the cold grate toward him and then away. She had been wakeful for some time.

"Come, you may be able to stomach a meal now," he said as he approached. He had not wanted to risk it last night, so soon after administering the healing draught for fear her stomach would reject the food and the potion along with it.

Vaguely she nodded. There was a haunted look in her muddy brown eyes. Severus politely ignored the crack in her armor, only children and dead men slept soundly.

Bending he made as if to lift her, pausing, surprised when she stopped him.

"Help me stand?"

He studied the determined set to her jaw and nodded. Sitting up she set her feet on the floor. Taking his hands in hers she tried to pull herself up. Her grip was strong, but her arms were wasted. She couldn't do it. Stooping slightly he grasped her arms just above the elbow feeling her steady herself on his forearms. With him steadying her and lifting some of the weight she managed to rise. Once standing she tentatively released him. Her stance was precarious and she panted softly with the effort. When she swayed he caught her lifting her easily as he carried her from the room.

He settled her onto a chair at the kitchen table, and set a plate of heavily buttered toast and a side of applesauce before her. Beside this he set a tall glass of carrot juice.

"I want you on juice, not water. You need sugars and vitamins, just as much as the liquids."

Taking the spoon she began eating tentatively. Snape saw she was having trouble with it, when she quickly abandoned nibbling on the bread to take occasional sips of juice and tasting the applesauce. Leaving her in peace he applied himself to his tea, toast, and periodical which camouflaged his covert observation of the girl. Absently, he pushed a jar of jam across the table when he noticed her discretely scraping butter off of her toast.

"Butter or jam, you need the calories," he informed her calmly pushing the plate of plain toast across toward her.

When there was no pop of the jar he glanced casually over the top of the paper at Hermione. She was crumbling the buttered toast into small pieces, before nabbing a spoonful of carrot juice and sprinkling the remains of her toast on top.

It looked like a tedious process.

"Is solid food hard for you to eat?" he asked, keeping his eyes firmly pinned on his newspaper to save them both the embarrassment.

She flushed and grimaced, "Gag reflex…" she muttered continuing to dissolve her toast in her juice.

"I expect you to finish the apple sauce. Stop mutilating your toast. I can make oatmeal."

Rising, he did so, using milk in place of water, she needed calories somehow. He dumped raisins into the pot and set it on low heat to cook.

As he cooked he mulled over what she could eat to work her gradually back up to solid food…

No more than five minutes later he set a small bowl of porridge before her, it was generously watered with milk, nearly liquid. Obediently she began to eat slowly, no doubt unused to the amount of food he was forcing her to consume.

Setting the cover on the pot he spoke, "By the end of the day I expect you to have finished this pot. There is more juice in the cold box. Unfortunately my presence is required elsewhere…will you be able to get around if necessary?"

He glanced at her, she was biting her lower lip, "Do you have crutches?"

"I may have a cane."

"This magical contact ban could get difficult in a wizard's home."

"Hn…"

Before leaving her he deposited her back in the sitting room, it was close to the bathroom, started a fire and left wood by the hearth, and placed her bowl of oatmeal and a pitcher of juice on the coffee table. Surveying her setup he returned with a few tomes from his library, something on potions, the history of transfiguration and an in-depth study of memory charms… they had been the books on his bedside table the night before and the Daily Prophet.

He could practically taste her elation when he set the pile beside her. Her brilliant smile was more sincere a thanks than any words.

* * *

Hermione spent the day quietly. First she drank in the sensual pleasure of printed parchment under her hands, reading _Transfiguration: A Study of Altered Energies_ and _Draughts Deadly Fair_ in one solid sitting. Out of everything mundane she had given up during her captivity, she had truly missed learning, and books.

Turning the final page of _Draughts Deadly Fair_ she closed it reverently savoring the feeling of accomplishment and the mental clarity that came when she was assimilating new information. After several minutes she set the text aside. Surveying the room, she eyed the food that had been left for her. She felt like a terrifically ungrateful and wasteful wretch. He was going to such lengths, putting himself in danger for her to heal, and she felt downright nauseas at the thought of eating more.

Determined, she reached out pouring herself a glass of juice. She managed to drink half. For now it would do. Absently she pressed a hand over her sunken abdomen, it was less pronounced now, and she could feel her innards protesting the sudden introduction of rich, plentiful food. Stubborn, she ate another mouthful or two of oatmeal even dabbing on a bit of treacle. She knew the iron would be good for her.

By the time evening came she had managed to empty the pot and pitcher he had left for her, one careful sip and spoonful at a time. She did not feel better for having eaten, but convinced herself that the feeling would pass.

Hoping to avoid sleep and the horrors her mostly broken mind conjured she began reading _Mind Bending: Memory Charms and other Magicks Pertaining to the Psyche _how ironic.

* * *

When she woke, from blessedly dreamless sleep, she saw that the memory charms book had been, at some point in the night, removed from her hands, just as she had been covered in the blanket and her dishes removed from the room. Sitting up slowly she noticed two new texts had appeared on the floor beside the loveseat. Frowning at the refilled pitcher, cranberry or currant today, and pot of what looked like a soup she realized she had once more been left to her own devices.

After several moments of confusion as to his meticulous care and sudden distance, a glance at the clock told her it was very early, so there was little excuse for her having simply overslept his leaving…. And as evidenced by the changes in her surroundings and the distinct lack of magical residue, he had returned at some point.

Shaking off the niggling panic at such unpredictable changes in her new environment she ladled herself a bowl of soup and set about the unpleasant task of nourishment.

Today she fared better, it seemed as though her stomach was more receptive to food and feeling energetic she began a tedious process of rehabilitation. Though Snape's potion was accelerating her recovery her muscles were completely atrophied.

After an attempt to stand left her on the floor she set a lower bar. With a patience borne of years spent unable to do more than squirm she got comfortable on the floor and began working muscles that had not been given leave to move in far too long.

* * *

By the fourth day of utter solitude, Hermione wondered if she might truly be losing her mind. It was one thing to experience extremely realistic hallucinations while starving, dehydrated, suffering from severe pain, and constant threat of death. It was quite another to suffer such mental slips when relatively healthy and in no pain.

Out of desperation, she began leaving food on her plate, breaking one of the few orders he had issued. The next morning she found a change in her rather static environment. A single strip of parchment lay on the coffee table.

**Eat. -SS-**

Read the simple missive. On the one hand this brief communication somewhat quelled her growing fear that she was trapped in one very persistent hallucination. On the other… she was still painfully alone, and god knew what he had in store for her when he did return.

Obediently she ate, read, and continued to exercise persistently.

* * *

Happy New Years! I hope everyone's staying awake really late and reading, or drinking champagne with friends and family. Enjoy the bubbly and please drop a review. Much love to all, my new year's resolution is to get updates at least weekly, fingers crossed everyone?


	7. Chapter 7 - Right-hand of Madness

Ch 7

Right-hand of Madness

He managed to evade her for a week, but with rest and good food (he'd managed to get her eating solids by the fifth day) her stamina was increasing.

Feigning sleep, curled comfortably on the loveseat, her most current reading material having fallen down to rest lightly on her bosom. She listened to the monotonous tick tock of the grandfather clock somewhere down the hall.

Finally she heard the sounds she desired. Distantly, there was the open and closing thump of a door. After what seemed like ages she heard the sound of running water in the bathroom and, perhaps another quarter of an hour later she heard the distinct sigh-scuff of wooden floors under the weight of a grown man and Snape's distinctive shush shush of fabric.

It was tempting to open her eyes then, but she knew patience, so she remained still, her breathing even, eyes closed. Felt, more than heard, him pause over her body. Reaching down he slid a hand under the opened spine of her book slipping it free from her hands and placing it with a soft thump on the floor beside her. She sensed the shift as he crossed to the table.

Cracking her eyes open cautiously Hermione surveyed the figure in somber black whose back was currently to her. He looked tense and pale, his hair was damp which suggested he had bathed, yet no heat flush showed on his skin. He was once more in his formal black attire, which perhaps emphasized his palor. Silently, she sat up, and was surprised when he did not immediately sense her.

She watched him mutter a soft spell sending the dishes to the kitchen.

"Severus," she said, wary of his moods.

He froze and if it was possible tensed further. His dark eyes flicked, empty as dull black pebbles, to her and away.

"It is late," he murmured making for the nearest exit.

Desperate to keep him from leaving her for another week she lurched to her feet. Unsurprisingly this pulled him up short and she quickly took a step or two to the left blocking the door. His eyes raked up and down her. Once satisfied with her relative stability he began edging around her to flee the room.

As he passed her without a sidelong glance she reached out, her fingers trailing over his sleeve. To her surprise he flinched, his temple and jaw jumping as molars clenched. His face paled slightly and she too froze, too conditioned to prepare herself for the coming blow to do anything but still and relax her muscles.

When instead of hurling her savagely to the floor he merely made a soft grunt of discomfort, she dared to speak, "Severus, are you alright?"

Something in her address set him off for his face chilled so suddenly she almost heard the crack as his signature scowl appeared and set itself rigidly in place.

"Granger, you would do well to remember your place and unhand me," he hissed menacingly.

"_Constrigo Mentis_," She whispered her hand flickering out suddenly over his forearm in an odd circular motion.

Snape jerked back casting up a shield, too late, feeling the foreign magic settle over him like a clinging mist before his movement caused it to dissipate. His head spun an instant, a headache burgeoning at the base of his skull as his knees went weak. Steeling himself to the debilitating weakness he shook his head blinking till his vision cleared. He had not expected her to attack him, but considering his actions, distrust on her part was warranted, and he had anticipated some kind of resistance. What he really hadn't thought to predict was her folding to the ground with a barely audible moan, clutching at her left arm.

His first thought was that her spell had backfired on her, a miracle that it had such an effect on him at all. Immediately, upon regaining himself he bent lifting the woman from the ground. He was pleased to feel she had gained some weight, and setting her on the love seat he deftly caught her left arm. Prying the hand clutching her forearm off he shoved her sleeve up not knowing quite what to expect save a gruesome wound.

Her arm was completely unharmed. A few pale scars smooth with time, and a dark, slightly raised, hook shaped scar on her inner wrist, the only remaining evidence of some dark magic device of Bella's. Suspicious he ran a lightly calloused thumb down the length of her forearm from inner elbow to her wrist, registering her soft, panting, pained breaths.

"What did you try to do?" he barked.

She gave him a weak smile, "Not try, succeeded. It's basically a mind bind. Stop—," she hissed out as his fingers bit into her arm, "it's not… Legilimency… I developed it," she paused to pull a few deep fortifying breaths, "specifically for Bellatrix… it lets two beings share, for a minute or two, physical sensations."

She shook her head sharply as her breathing evened out, regaining herself she reached out catching Snape's hand as he retreated from where he had settled on the love seat, Hermione almost in his lap, where he had set her in his haste to see how she had harmed herself.

Her deft movements had the particular brand of gentleness only a woman possesses as she carefully opened the row of black buttons on his left sleeve, "I got her once as she drove nails into my wrists."

Her smile was particularly triumphant at this revelation and she did not notice his slight cringe. With extreme care she rolled his sleeve up revealing his forearm.

He expected her to flinch back, most people did, and that was when the only blemish on his arm was the damning mark, the dark mark.

* * *

- Two hours previously-

Snape stood above what was once a living creature, and stony faced turned to his master. The lord watched him with an odd expression on his face. He was seated on a chair in the corner of the small cell and slowly extended a death pale hand.

With no choice but to comply Snape tucked his wand away and approached holding out his left arm as was customary. His face did not change when cold fingers closed in a vice grip over his forearm. His permanently detached expression did not shift at all when Voldemort pressed his thumb over the Dark Mark, hard. Snape's permanent scowl did not deepen when smoke began to rise from the fabric separating the flesh of master and servant. After several endlessly long, silent minutes Voldemort released him, demonic red eyes raking over his face.

"Have I displeased you, my lord?" Snape inquired in an expressionless tone.

At this, Voldemort's lipless mouth moved to smile slightly, "Not at all, Severus. I am very pleased with your work," and it was true, where most of his loyal followers cringed and cowered before their lord Severus stood tall never revealing even the slightest discomfort or concern.

Studying the utterly unmoved features Voldemort smiled more widely. Then the lord waved nonchalantly at the door, "You may go."

Snape gave a curt nod and strode from the cell.

* * *

Her hands hovered, over his wounds, but never touched, "_Hell_, what caused this?" she murmured aghast.

He shrugged carelessly, though he was meticulous not to jostle anything onto his arm, "Voldemort…he was pleased with me."

She was nodding absently as if this statement made all the sense in the world. As if to say yes, of course, when a psychotic madman bent on destroying the world is pleased this is commonly the result.

One of her hands clutched his to prevent him from pulling away as her fingers ran lightly over his burned skin, "_Demulce_" she murmured.

Snape stared as though she had grown a second head as the pain abated though the angry, blistering, blackened, oozing, peeling burn appeared just as horrific as before. Nothing, eased, or healed the wounds Voldemort could cause at a touch. Potions could soothe for a moment, but Snape knew that neither self healing charms nor the workings of another would mend the ruined flesh. He counted himself lucky. A week previously, Bellatrix had been slapped in the face, one of her eyes did not open because his fingers had caught her across one eyelid.

He had not tried to heal Bellatrix, she deserved to wallow in the pain. But in the past he had tried to heal Draco's wounds… all spells useless.

Yet this slip of a girl, barely strong enough to stand, could banish pain at a word, again, without even a wand to direct her power.

Hermione frowned, dissatisfied with her spell, "It's not working…no wand…"

"It's alright, it's impossible—"

Without warning she pressed her palm flush to the burn her thumb pressing directly over the center of the Dark Mark the resemblance to the Dark Lord's actions was almost comical, her spindly fingers were barely touching, cool and soothing in comparison to his lord's burning vice grip, "_Demulce_," she said again.

At the sudden jolt of power Snape jerked, pain flaring momentarily before it subsided, when she lifted her hand, only slightly reddened skin remained. In shock he ran his hand over the tender new skin. That should not have worked. A healing spell took intense concentration. Defensive spells, wandless, were far simpler. Adrenaline sharpened concentration, made the raw blast of power natural. Healing took a care not to damage exposed blood vessels, nerves, fragile cells, with too much power. It took perfect control of ones mind, thought could not stray at all, without a wand to direct the power, the danger of warped spells was high. She looked tired…drained.

"Do I want to know why?" she asked quietly

"No."

"Tell me anyway," she said, "I think I deserve to know."

His face was smooth and his voice empty of any emotion when he spoke, "There was a girl… a muggle-born…graduated last year, she was young, too young. I sent her to a good family. She had no reason to do such a foolish thing."

Squeezing his hand to draw his cold, flat eyes down to her she interrupted softly, "You sent her?"

"You have been gone a long time… it was…rather quickly discovered that to kill or imprison all muggle-borns would reduce the wizarding population beyond the chance of recovery… there are too few pure-blood families, too few pure-blooded children born every year. So many couples only have a single child… the pureblood population has been basically halved, besides war losses. A tidy solution was contrived, a caste system, based mainly on blood purity… but also power, was created with muggle-borns at the very bottom… their curriculum at Hogwarts… is restricted, they do not learn Dark Arts. It was argued they should not learn potions, but I became incensed at the suggestion… it is a reduced course. They are considered little more than semi-intelligent animals and are taught nothing that might be used against their masters."

She paled slightly, at this new term, he sensed it and studying her face with eyes that betrayed no emotion, elaborated, in a tone she had heard many times in the classroom.

"Upon graduation muggle-borns are assigned to a magical family, the head of whom will mark the youth here," he reached out dragging his hand down her throat he pushed the neck of his linen shirt down, pressing his thumb into the pronounced depression between her collarbones.

She was frozen, he could feel her pulse fluttering wildly beneath his thumb.

"Obfirmo Animens, Obfirmo Somes," he murmured analyzing the terror in her eyes, she knew how easy it would be for him to claim her, knew he knew… now what would she do with the information? Calmly he continued his explanation, "It is an incantation, which will brand the subject, and bind them to the interests of the family. I have had ex-student's brought to me forever scarred, the white of bone showing through the black burn…"

He dropped his hand, "She was a fool to run. Unless a student is… requisitioned, I make the recommendation to the ministry for their placement,"

"What happened?"

His voice was slow, strained as if to speak the words were a great trial, "She ran from her master's home… she had absolutely no idea how to hide herself. She was not like you and your contemporaries, she did not know how to survive. She knew nothing of suffering or pain. The MacDougal's bare even left a tan whorl, Christ… _She was safe there!_" he burst out.

"You executed her."

"No…" the sound was soft, drawn out, like a groan, "No, she ran with two others. Legilimency told me everything I needed to know. She had no shields. Would barely have understood the working of a shield, not once she was marked…changed. They were already dead, spilched when they tried to Apparate. There was no reason…none…"

Severus Snape was… not possible Only if Gandhi was eating snow cones in hell. Hermione was caught in the spell woven by his smooth voice. She stared in shock, as his graven features began to crack, stress, like hairline fractures through granite escaping his iron control.

"So you broke her," she said the words softly, there was no condemnation.

His hand convulsed slightly in her grip, "Legilimency broke her, but Voldemort wanted to see me work. He did not care that her mind was gone. It did not matter that she knew nothing, not even her own name when I finished her."

He did not say it was his payment to the Dark Lord for the gifting of her. He would not lay such a thing upon her. Even he was not so cruel as that. Some blood was only meant to stain his hands.

Hermione remained silent and still until Snape finally noticed her continued hold on his person rising to his full height to put distance between them.

"I will go to Bellatrix," she said, "It would be cruel of me to ask you to do that for me… you are not so numb to it as you would like to believe."

Snape glared coldly down at her, "Your foolish Gryffindor heart will be your undoing. What use would your idiotic sacrifice serve? I will not give myself away if that is your fear. It is…I do not…" he turned from her violently, striding toward the length of the room to the grate where he stopped his cloak billowing about his legs, "You are still sane after years under Bellatrix… I do not think even I could drive you out of your mind… not once you are strong again, Voldemort need only lose interest. I do not mean to deceive you, there will be no freedom for you, not even in death, for yours will be long in coming, but I swear to you, death by my hand will be clean, when it comes."

"No."

He turned to face her suddenly, "So you desire death?" he hissed in anger. How could she give up?! No, she could not, if she broke… if she… docilely accepted death, even as good as requested it…no… If she were GIVING UP! A blasted coward such as himself had no chance of enduring.

Unable to bear the accusation, she rose shakily to her feet, needing to feel less helpless, "NO! But don't you see? I can't harm anyone else! I can't do it. That's how I've broken… I can't bear any blood not my own."

Snape sneered, "You overestimate your importance to me."

"It's not about me, though… I think it could be anyone and inside you'd be hurting."

"You know nothing," he growled, "Why would you choose to go back to that animal. She will gleefully rip away whatever sanity you have left."

"You said it was my choice! Don't you dare take even the choice from me. Don't you see? I'm already completely off my rocker! I just do it within the confines of my own brain!"

He met her eyes, and there was something, a sharpness there she had not seen before, immediately she ripped her eyes away, she knew Legilimency when she saw it.

She felt him pressing dark and intent, violence and anger against her shields. She was so very weak still. She shuddered under the force of his anger and hated her own weakness.

"Stop it! Stop…" she cried out folding to the floor, her legs collapsing beneath her weight as she concentrated on shoving him out of her mind. He was a master to be able to do so without eye contact. He was only just touching her surface thoughts, and ordering her mind she concentrated on a mental shove, that forced him out with such violence he stumbled away from her. Utterly exhausted, she allowed her upper body to slump the last few feet to the floor closing her eyes. The healing had drained her magically, trying to stand, and exercise throughout the day made her body weak, having Snape trying to push into her mind did not help matters.

She heard the soft scuff-thump of his booted feet beside her head and felt the air shift as he crouched beside her.

"You're a heartless bastard, you know that?" she muttered not opening her eyes, she did not trust him to try to worm into her brain now that she was exhausted… she might not repel him twice… he had become a stronger Legilimens.

Warm hands grasped her upper arms lifting her back up onto the couch, "It's been hinted at once or twice."

She gave a low bark of laughter, "Hah, the boys would never believe me if it told them Severus Snape, _The-Greasy-Haired-Git-of-the-Dungeons_, was joking."

When released she sank back into the loveseat feeling the warmth of his body pressing against her side as he settled close beside her, she snickered again at the mental image of herself and her professor 'cuddling' on the overstuffed loveseat designed so it was hard not to be snuggled up against his side.

"Hn…" her companion murmured in agreement as he studied her face. She looked tired, and lost, and hopeless… he had not meant to do that… not this time… "Look at me, Hermione."

Her graying face twitched slightly to frown or smile, he could not tell, "Uhh…no."

"I don't need to meet your eyes to use Legilimency. You are keeping me out under your own power."

Slowly, she opened her light, brindled amber eyes, studying his face with what he decided was well deserved suspicion.

The sharpness was gone from his gaze and she gave him a slight smile, one of pure relief. For an instant Snape was grateful he had gleaned nothing but her intense desire to get him OUT of her mind. He was rather surprised that the Gryffindor kept up habitual wards on her deeper mental workings.

He did not apologize. She did not expect him to. She had made him blindingly angry. Had insinuated first that he had a weakness, second that he was breaking his word to her, it hurt his pride, hurt his honor… he had retaliated, and neither of them were soft, or kind people... not anymore.

"You have gained some weight," Snape observed.

It was an attempt to diffuse the situation and Hermione took it as such.

"It's getting easier to finish eating," she acknowledged.

"You're still barely eating in a day what you should eat in a single meal."

Hermione shrugged tapping her sunken abdomen absently, pressing the shapeless linen to her body better defining her condition for her observer. His potion was acting to accelerate her healing process and he could tell the frail body pressed against his side was more filled out than before. Her hip pressing into his leg had fleshed out slightly, and her knees did not seem quite so disproportionately large, as some flesh lay along her calves and thighs.

She would need another dose soon. One more treatment, he hoped, would return her to some semblance of mobility.

"Professor?"

He flinched slightly, and wondered if she said such things intentionally, to shame him whenever he had done something particularly heinous.

"Sorry, Severus?" she tried again, not intending to discomfit him, besides, if he was keeping the cease fire she would too, "Are you going to disappear on me for another week?"

"No Hermione… Voldemort has no need of me tomorrow. You however need another nourishing potion, if you are well enough to be casting spells of your own."

She grimaced, "Yay…"

"I won't put you through a dosage error again. It will be a milder draught, fewer ingredients interacting," he offered.

She nodded rubbing absently at her wrists in memory of the pain.

"How are you doing it?" he asked eying her hands.

She blinked up at him, "Magic? I don't really know. In the beginning, I couldn't do it. But I knew it could be done, Dumbledore, McGonagall, I'd even seen you do it sometimes. But it was only ever minor magics… I didn't think it could be used for anything useful… At first I could only reverse spells. I had so much time on my hands… I spent so long… In the beginning, I was just feeling the magic. Dark magic having such a strong and different feel made it easier. Eventually, I got to where I was seeing it, but without my eyes, and I could unmake the magical frameworks, by applying my own magic, at the right interference pitch. They gagged me and made my arms immovable after I nullified a few of her cursed objects… I had to relearn everything, no motions, no sound. It's exhausting… nonverbally, I can do one major working, then I'm drained, I don't know if that's a product of my weakened state or a limit of wandless magic."

"Hn… basic wandless magic is not something taught to young wizards because of the high likelihood of the spell backfiring on them. Intense concentration is necessary, as I am sure you know, to ensure stray thoughts do not become a part of the working. Wizards often have the greatest ability to work in their area of affinity, Minerva in transfiguration, for example. Though nearly all find offensive spells come easily when in dire situations. I have never heard of what you're describing… is that what you did to my arm?"

"Yes… only it was harder, because the curse was so much more powerful…so evil and bound up in your flesh. Though I suppose part of the difficulty is that it was overlaying the dark mark, that thing is such a strong magical presence it was hard to separate it from the milder corrosion curse." Hermione tapped her wrist absently, "If I had known half of that I would not have attempted half the things I have…"

"It is rather miraculous you did not kill yourself in the learning."

"I was too drug hazed to try until I was too weak to do much damage when my thoughts wandered or my intention wavered. I could never do much healing, not on myself, just enough to keep from bleeding out or something and then only if she'd used something cursed to inflict it."

They sat in companionable silence for several minutes until the woman beside him made a slight noise stifling a massive yawn behind her hand in a very feminine gesture. Rising Snape watched as she eased over on her side tucking into a tight curl that looked decidedly uncomfortable.

"Would you prefer I transfigured a couch?" he inquired.

Blinking sleepily up at him Hermione shrugged. He took it as an affirmative and morphed the toffee colored love seat into a full length sofa. She took the change in stride stretching full out on the now plentiful surface murmuring what might have been thanks as for a second night he settled the comforter over her body.

* * *

Hehe… Snape's getting attached. Sorry it took longer for an update, classes have started back up and it's all the rigmarole of a new semester. I'll try to keep writing semi-regular like. Much love as always to all my reviewers, you're good people.


	8. Chapter 8 - The Science of Psychosis

Ch 8

The Science of Psychosis

Watcher wards woke Snape with a start. The insistent buzzing against his awareness said blood and he lurched to his feet. Dragging on his frock coat over his under shirt he did not bother buttoning the front. He couldn't have left her more than an hour or two ago. He was in that wide awake, but rather detached mindset that said he'd only just gotten to sleep and had been woken from the light sleep that comes just before dreaming.

Striding down the hall he entered his sitting room calling an orb light into existence. Hermione was restless, but still sleeping. She did not wake when he entered and this caused him pause. He did not know what he expected… maybe a broken window… some other bodily injury she had caused herself testing out her new mobility. Silently, he studied her for some sign of the injury his wards had reacted to. The woman was visibly tensed her entire body rigid.

"Hermione!" he called out reluctant to touch her, he would not make the same mistake twice.

He did not know what would trigger a bad reaction. If anything his voice seemed to unsettle her further and she thrashed once against some invisible bond and then her body relaxed, one hand slipping out from under the cover to trail the carpeted floor. Approaching he steeled himself to touch the girl and wake her, no doubt screaming… he might even get hexed for his efforts to be considerate. That was when he noticed the shadow on the side opposite him was not in fact a shadow.

Blood

It was seeping through the toffee toned blanket at around waist level on her right side. He pulled the blanket down slowly, not touching her, deeply concerned as to what injury would bleed enough to show through the comforter. Had she cut herself? Impossible, she was sleeping.

Her right hand appeared to be sweating… black blood. It was held curled to her side awkwardly, and he knew it had not been so an hour before.

"Severus…"

At her voice, had he been a lesser man, he might have jumped. Its timbre was lower than normal, and husky, but clear. Black eyes darting to her face he saw she still slept.

"Please…"

The low order of command was in the voice that was not her voice, the voice that was dead, dead because he had killed him. He stumbled back from her prone form. Her body jerked once arching horribly off the couch as though a great jolt of energy had struck her squarely in the chest and then she went still, a dropped rag doll.

Absolutely still, her chest even ceased to rise and fall with breath. He stared at her body appalled. Frozen, he could not even muster the courage to move to her aid. Only a single thought, a pitiful mantra, ran through his mind, _'She was not there. She was not there. She was not there.'_

Then her hands flew to her throat as she gasped coming violently awake, violently _alive_. The black blood drying tackily on her right hand left streaks on the pale skin of her neck. Her eyes found his in the clear light cast by his spell and she shuddered a whimper escaping her throat.

Her action goaded him into motion and he approached her freezing once more when she scrambled away from him fetching up in a ball against the arm of the chair. There was fear in her tawny brown eyes and her breath came in quick, shallow gasps. She shivered and her full lips trembled, whether she was speaking or on the verge of tears, it was hard to tell.

"Hermione, what did you see?"

She shook her head and clamped her right hand over her lips her eyes widening and body shaking harder when she noticed the strange inky substance coating her hand from wrist to fingertips.

Slowly, he approached her and pulled her hand away from her mouth. She cringed from his touch struggling weakly but ineffectually in his grasp. With a corner of his sleeve he wiped at the dark smears on her cheeks and lips. He watched from behind an impassive mask as the tears welling in her eyes slid from the corners of her eyes dripping into her hair, darkening the honey toned curls at her temples to amber. Her dark pupils were so wide as to swallow all but a hairline ring of amber bright.

Now that he was within inches of her face he heard her whispering, "Why…why, why, why…why?"

"A dying man's final orders, Hermione, I had no choice, they had to be carried out," meaningless nothings, just sounds, human ones to sooth and ground her in reality.

She shook her head violently and he released her chin, suspecting she did not like him so close to her face. He turned his attention to her hand.

"No…nononono…" it came out like a moan, "He wanted to die…How could he leave us behind?" she was crying harder now, and he wondered that she could withstand such physical pain, yet seemed shaken to her core by this… whatever it was.

"What did you see?" he reiterated, not really expecting an answer.

Her shaking was easing as he cleaned her skin. It looked like her capillaries had literally ruptured and fresh bruising, painted violet over her milky skin.

"Draco, Bellatrix, I stopped Harry from saving me! I was terribly worried you would not come. You did and I was sure you would not do it, you hesitated too long. I kept thinking, _'Just do it._ ' God," her free hand clutched her chest, "It hurt, like 100,000 volts of electricity running through my heart."

She was shaking again and grasping at his robes with her good hand. Reluctantly he settled beside her on the couch letting her press up against his side. He did not hold her. He did not want to make it worse. She had just seen him murder a man, a man she'd loved, trusted nearly as a father-figure.

"Damn these dreams. I know it is weak, but they hurt, why must they hurt!" she muttered when her involuntarily clenched fingers wrung a hiss of pain from between her clenched teeth.

"Hermione, that was not a nightmare… you were bleeding, you stopped breathing."

She shook harder pressing herself up under his arm her hand cradled protectively to her chest, "I wasn't just watching…I was Dumbledore. I died."

Her shoulders heaved in silent sobs, "I'm losing my mind, bloody hell. I've finally lost it."

"You're alright, Hermione, you weren't there, hallucinations are rarely accurate to reality," he soothed as best he could, tentatively resting a hand on her head.

"I can't take it!" she almost wailed, "Behind my eyes there's so much death, so much blood. I…I prefer the honest nightmares. I survived those once, I can do it again."

"There's something wrong in your mind, Hermione. I don't think its insanity. Let me in, let me see what's wrong," he cajoled.

She recoiled from him shaking her head, "No, no, no, no…"

'_There are things in my mind you cannot see,'_ her eyes screamed.

"Let me help you," he insisted.

'_No'_ she only mouthed the word this time.

"I've seen and done worse."

She was becoming agitated, and her shields, stressed from his previous prodding were crumbling with each quick breath, but he would not invade her mind… that would cause her pain. Her surface thoughts were broadcasting themselves erratically.

'_Bad thoughts.'_

'_Professor.'_

'_He can't see.'_

'_Snape.'_

'_It will hurt.'_

'_Severus!'_

'_It aches.'_

"I won't force you. Be calm," he ordered.

Both breathed a sigh of relief when she forced her mind to quiet. He allowed her a moment or two to collect herself. He spoke true… the young woman was off balance. Even just from a glimpse, he could sense the imbalance in her mind, and was haunted by the hazy blackness that dominated her mental landscape. Beyond four years there was little substantial she could grasp…too much was lost, bare outlines she knew, but without powerful triggers she could not recall what Harry's face had looked like when he won a Quidditch game, or even what exactly her parents had gifted her the Christmas of fourth year.

Extending a hand he silently demanded she give him her wounded hand. Slowly, she complied, her eyes wary and watchful. Inspecting it carefully he decided it did in fact need treatment.

"This is not natural," he murmured as he rose lifting the girl into his arms he carried her with him to his potions lab. He no longer trusted her to be alone. His orb of light floated along in their wake.

"What's natural about insanity?" She quipped weakly.

"Everything, it is a defense mechanism," he supplied calmly.

It seemed natural to retake his role as a teacher and answer her questions. It was safe, soothing to both their wounded psyche's now.

"How so?"

"When the mind is overwhelmed emotionally, psychologically, or with physical stimuli it cannot deal with…it seeks a reality it can process, a mental refuge, in which it can maintain its self-image."

"So… hallucination."

"Yes, however there are other manifestations," as he spoke he was spreading bruise healing paste over her hand, "Alternative personalities, a comatose state more numbness to the stimuli than anything else, memory blanks,"

"What triggers it most efficiently?" Hermione inquired.

Snape shrugged, he was in teaching mode, the answers to her questions slipped out without him consciously analyzing what he was saying, "Voldemort is particularly adept at mental torture. He can break a man in a day."

"Are physical stressors less effective?"

"No it is merely a matter of understanding that humans, women in particular, are much more accustomed to dealing with physical stressors, than mental and emotional ones. Therefore the established coping mechanism must be broken," he revealed

"A coping mechanism?" she prompted.

"It is different in different people. Some people curse, become blindingly enraged with the aggressor. Soldiers often cope by 'gritting their teeth and bearing it.' By not expressing their pain they gain control over it. "

"How do you break it?"

"Give the first person, no object toward with to direct their hatred. Without the anger to insulate their mind from the pain they are susceptible. Or force the soldier to express their pain, in a repressive personality the expression actually intensifies the mind's awareness of the pain stimuli. Their minds are more open and vulnerable and more quickly succumb."

"Expression… like screaming," she remarked in a casual tone.

Snape's teeth came together with an audible click as his head snapped up so he could meet her impassive sepia eyes.

He stared hard at her, his lips thinning into a nigh invisible line, "Very Slytherin of you."

She gave him a sharp smile of her own, "I don't have the advantage of Legilimency. I know you're catching surface thoughts. It's only fair."

He blinked reptilian eyes, but his touch on her inflamed hand remained gentle, "Does it surprise you so, that I am just as cold and calculating as I seem; that I have not in recent years developed a sadistic turn for the sound of anguish?"

"It is good to have the assurance."

He nodded, this little manipulation he could accept. Releasing her hand so she might secure it in a comfortable manner against her chest he lifted her from the lab table he had perched her on. She could walk, but he did not trust her strength. Settling her back on her couch he performed a quick cleaning spell removing all traces of the strange black blood.

Then, while she situated herself, he settled into the armchair beside the couch.

A flick of his wand brought a fire in into existence and extinguished his orb light.

Her rustling stopped.

"Umm… are you staying?" she inquired.

"You can no longer be trusted," Snape intoned calmly leaning his head back against his headrest, shifting slightly to get comfortable.

"I didn't do anything."

"No, some yet undetermined element in your mind made you bleed."

"So? I didn't mean to harm myself," Hermione insisted.

"Doesn't matter, until I know what it is that causes you to begin spontaneously hemorrhaging, I'm staying."

Hermione scowled, "If this is a ploy to get me to agree to let you root around in my brain…" she trailed off threateningly.

Snape did not even dignify this sally with opening his eyes, "I assure you, it… mostly is not," he processed the rest of her statement and opened his eyes to send her a sidelong glare, "Furthermore, it takes a great deal of finesse to 'root around' in your brain… at least without leaving you mentally incapacitated. It is an art."

She tried practicality next, "I don't exactly plan on sleeping again… there's no reason for you to be uncomfortable."

"You need rest, and whether you plan on it or not, I predict you will be unconscious within the next twenty minutes."

"Did you drug me?" she bolted upright, wild fear in her eyes.

Snape turned his head slightly to meet her eyes, "No, you fool, you are magically drained. I preformed a small healing magic, as I am sure even you are aware healing magic stimulates the body to sleep and recover. Therefore, either I sit here, while you sleep there, or we can both move to my bedroom," he tacked on sarcastically.

Satisfied he had effectively silenced her he turned his face forward and closed his eyes.

"Oh…" she muttered in a small voice, "Well, why don't we do that? You're never going to fall asleep there," she suggested pragmatically.

Very slowly he turned his head to look her full in the face, "Hermione, I am not about to put you into a bed with a male, even if… no, especially if that male is me."

She gave him a triumphant little grin and he blinked bewildered at her, "So it _is_ only to cater to me," she exclaimed, then she shrugged, and in a voice far too complacent for his liking assured, "You won't trigger anything. It's not as if anything has ever happened to me in a bed."

He flinched and she cringed slightly, "I'm sorry, I said too much again…"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, "Indeed…" he muttered.

When he risked a sideways glance at her he realized she was still looking expectantly at him.

"No," was all he said.

"Let's negotiate."

"You have nothing to leverage," Snape reminded her with just the edge of a smirk visible.

"I can agree to let you perform 'the art' of Legilimency, tomorrow, once you've actually rested. You look rather haggard."

He stared at her, his face still as carved marble, a sure sign he was thinking quite hard about something.

After a long moment he sighed deeply, he did not actually relish napping in an arm chair. A cot could be transfigured, but the purpose was not to sleep deeply so that he could keep an eye on her the night. He studied the stubborn tilt to her lips, she would not appreciate his nursemaid behavior. He was in fact exhausted, it had been a painful week at the Dark Lord's beck and call. Even now he could feel the creeping exhaustion weighting his limbs. The girl was still glaring challengingly at him. It was not as if he in any way constituted a danger to Hermione in that manner. Hell, even she, who had every reason to fear a man, especially one such as himself, pointed out, in her horribly blunt Gryffindor manner, that she did not even worry he might trigger a bad reaction. Still.

"We are both exhausted," she coaxed.

"If it will make you drop the subject."

He rose swiftly, trying hard not to over analyze what he had just conceded. Scooping her up, blanket and all, he walked down the dark hallway to his room. Pushing open the door, he once more summoned an orb of light, illuminating a dark mahogany and hunter green motif. What was he doing? He would blame exhaustion and concern for capitulating to the woman. For now he set her down onto his mattress. The covers were still thrown back from his hasty exit.

Then he walked around to the other edge of the bed sitting on the mattress, not quite able to lay down with the same unthinking ease that she did. It just felt…intrusive, overbearing, wrong…did he really need to stay with her? The image of her thrashing, feeling Avada Kedavra running through her body flashed through his mind. He was staying. Should he sleep on the floor? Would she let him? Would it be unseemly of him to hit her with requiescat? She'd be out cold. He could then sleep on the floor. She was so young, and fragile, though he suspected that the perceived frailty was only a façade created by her emaciation. Still, this just looked _bad_…it felt like he had somehow manipulated her into this. In fact, he probably had, damn his sarcasm, if he'd just kept his mouth shut…

Hermione sensing this sudden attack of… conscience sat up giving him a gentle smile, and with all the ease of a girl not climbing into bed with her _professor-turned-torturer_ said, "Sleep like I used to with the boys, me, under the covers with my head at the footboard, they on either side of me, on top of the covers, lying right way."

He quirked a brow at this, "Is the Gryffindor dormitory so short on space?"

As he spoke, he took her advice, moving his pillow to the foot of the bed and taking the extra blanket he had carried over with her putting it over the hunter green bedspread.

"Very funny, but no, some of the places we stayed in the last month on the run…were less than comfortable. I finally got fed up with them sleeping on the floor and griping and groaning about it the next morning."

Snape couldn't resist a slight chuckle at this, "And you trapped in between because?"

Hermione gave a little laugh, "Obviously because even if it was only the three of us, heaven forbid they seem too close. Somebody might get the wrong idea."

He lay down and felt the bed shift as Hermione snuggled down into his covers. He felt sleep creep over his mind with alarming speed. It should feel more…disconcerting to share his bed with a former student… with Hermione Granger. On the contrary, it felt almost comfortable. The most disconcerting thing was sleeping upside down in his own bed, his brain kept insisting the door should be on his left side… He could hear her soft, even, painless breaths, feel the warmth of her body against his legs. It was not a terribly large bed, only a full. He lived alone, there was no reason for a king or queen size, but it did not feel cramped with two people. It felt almost… dare he even think the word…cozy.

"Thank you for waking up to check on me, Severus," he heard her murmur, and accepted it feeling no need to make a response.

* * *

Oh poor Snape, what things men can be convinced of when they are worried and terribly tired, impairs their judgment it does. Ahh well…

Again, much love to my reviewers, you are the blessed of the earth. (the phrase good people was getting worn out)

Welp, finally got this chapter up, hope you enjoyed a trip into Snape's musings, as I did.


	9. Chapter 9 - Welcome to My Hell

Ch 9

Welcome to my Hell

Hermione woke feeling very warm and comfortable. There's a different kind of warmth that comes from another person and it's a comfort you can't really understand until you've been able to snuggle up against the warmth of another body and just enjoy, not too hot, not too cool, perfect and the weight of another body just steady, up against your side...

Hermione's eyes flashed open… yup… snuggling up against Severus Snape's legs… Very carefully she eased over onto her back, only her left arm and leg remaining in contact with her professor through a comfortingly thick layer of bedding. He was a large man, and the bed was small, to put space between them she would be off the bed. Well… she never would have predicted this in a million years…but it was nice, almost as comforting as having Ron semi-hugging her left calf in the morning and her arms curled around Harry's legs, pressed up against his back. There was the same warm contentment, maybe it had something to do with Severus's hand resting on her knee, or the sense of normalcy and… permanence that had a little to do with being in a real bed and a lot to do with how safe she felt.

She blinked and succumbed once more to the call of warmth and softness.

* * *

When Snape woke, he settled further into the bedding. He didn't remember a time he had slept so soundly. Blinking at the dim ceiling overhead he tried to orient himself. He was upside down… it was terribly disconcerting, why was he?

Oh… lifting his head slightly he eyed the curly fluff of brown hair that showed over the edge of dark green blankets. Yes, that was the reason. It was difficult to resist the desire to roll on his side and go back to sleep. He was about to do just that when Hermione shifted minutely in her sleep and he noticed the exact position of his hand. Very good Severus, we've moved right on up from murder, torture, and general crimes against humanity to sexual harassment of former students.

Spectacular.

While the desire to recoil as though burned was strong, the only thing that could possibly make this moment any worse was if she woke and noticed her professor molesting her in her sleep. His hand was gently gripping her leg, just above the knee… through blankets, but still, way to close for comfort. Yes, that would be…Christ, that would be…

Slowly, he removed his hand, somehow he had wedged his fingers beneath her knee his thumb wrapping around to her outer thigh. The difficulty arose from the fact she had pressed her legs together pinning his hand. He succeeded, but disturbed her sleep and she muttered restlessly rolling toward him her warm body molding up against his side. He was petrified with fear, more afraid that her eyes would open than the thought of torture at Voldemort's hands. He was mortified to notice, that despite the bedding he could tell her curves were filling back out. Yes, it was most definitely time to put her into proper clothing. Underclothes were a particularly pressing need. He hoped she would be able to walk on her own soon, he would not be able to carry her around, clothed in little more than his shirt… the undershirt, while modest, simply was not the proper amount of layers between her skin and his. Especially since he was growing quite familiar with what might be concealed under the shapeless shift.

Christ, she was soft, and warm, and God curse him, painfully female, with as much speed as possible he extracted himself from her warmth, fleeing the presence of a sleeping girl as if a full grown manticore were nipping at his heels.

* * *

Hermione woke and knew immediately that her bed partner had left her to her own devices. She had to stifle a giggle at the mental image of Snape with bed-head. Her own hair, unmanageable when worn long enough to weigh itself down was now a perpetually untamable dervish fluffed out in short loose curls in all directions. It was not all that different brushed than now, maybe the part more defined, but she would have paid to see Severus Snape's dark, thick, sleek, chin length locks a bit squished in the back, a little frizzed on the top and flipped out on one side and in on the other.

Sighing a little at this missed opportunity she sat up running her hands through her unruly curls to get them out of her face. She saw at the foot of the bed Snape had laid out a change of clothing. She smiled slightly. It was clear he had altered his own clothing down in size and shape to fit a female. Stripping out of his shirt she pulled on the undergarments, slid the black slacks on and pulled the green jumper over her head. The knit was thick and warm, she immediately liked it. It was summer, but the man kept his home like an icebox… she suspected it had to do with the volatile potions ingredients stored throughout.

It felt nice to wear normal clothing. More permanent… less like a patient in a hospital or a prisoner in a particularly nice cell.

Maybe… just maybe, she would work up the nerve to ask him if she could go outside for a little. The last thing he needed was to catch her doing was moving from sun-spot to sun-spot around his sitting room, kitchen, and library like an oversized cat seeking heat.

With a care for her balance she stood, taking slow, shaky steps to the bathroom. She felt no shame in leaning on walls and furniture where available and was pleased to make it to the bathroom stool without collapsing once. Her legs trembled and burned, but she was here. The first two days she had had to crawl…

Briskly she completed her morning routine feeling more awake and a little more human for having cleaned up.

Moving toward the kitchen from which emanated the sounds and smell of food she made it to the table with only one stop to sit against the wall.

When she pulled the chair back with a scrape she suppressed a smile when Snape froze, the running sink had obscured her noise thus far.

He turned and glared mildly at her, "Is is wise for you to be walking?"

She quirked a brow as she sank into the chair, "Well, that's debatable, I can start walking now and maybe be fully mobile in a few weeks or I can let my body continue to waste away. How do you think I've managed for the last week?"

He accepted this and turned quickly away. Hermione stared at his back. He had never had a problem staring her down before this. She stared hard and could visibly see his shoulder's tensing. After several minutes of silence he came to the table with two plates of food and a dark red pitcher of juice that might have been cranberry and might have been pomegranate.

Setting her plate before her he retreated to the other side of the table and disappeared behind _The Daily Prophet._ Hermione ate a bite or two of egg, eyeing the vapidly giggling witch on the front page. The headline read **"Evelyn Helimon Awarded Potions Mistress of the Year for Innovation in Cosmetic Potions. Continued on A2" **

She suspected censorship was now rather heavy handed.

"So… this is rather domestic… except that the day you read about Evelyn's Perfectly Pink Hair Wash I think I'm just going to shoot us both to put us out of our misery."

Potion stained fingers tightened on the edge of the paper crinkling Evelyn's vapidly giggling face. Very deliberately, he flipped to the next page, she didn't know what was on this one, and thus could not comment on his reading material.

"Did you sleep well?" Hermione continued unfazed.

Somehow, without actually moving, Snape retreated further behind his newspaper, grimly silent. Hermione smothered a smirk at his obvious discomfort.

"I did, warm, soft—" she rambled

"Kindly, shut it," he ordered curtly from behind his periodical buttress.

She couldn't hold in her snicker and watched expectantly as the paper slowly folded down so he could view her over _The Prophet_. The glare was impressive, but directed carefully just to the left of her.

"Severus…we're both adults. You have that guilty, shamed air about you. Seeing as there is no way in hell you could possibly feel threatened by me, I'm going to assume you feel you have somehow acted in a way inappropriate toward me. I'm fine, well rested, I don't feel…violated or any such thing," his eyes were slowly but surely drifting to meet hers, she gave him a lopsided smile, "I feel safe. I know that matters to you more than you let on."

His eyes scanned her face and he flipped the paper back up concealing himself, "I do not think you should trust me enough to feel safe around me."

"That's unfortunate seeing as I have given you permission to take a look around in my head."

The paper came down to the table and he rubbed his hand across his eyes, "I won't hold you to it, Hermione. You weren't exactly making an unpressured, lucid decision."

"No, but I stand by it…maybe I'm only a little mad, but I want to know for sure. I hope I can trust you not to use what you find against me." she met his eyes squarely, but the tightness of her jaw revealed her unease.

They stared into one another's eyes reading the minute changes in the face, the dilation of the pupils, the color of the iris, the tightness of the skin around the eyes and mouth, the position of the brows. Both came to the conclusion that the other was searching out their intentions and hardened their faces against the probing look.

"Eat. We will discuss this further," Snape finally acquiesced.

Satisfied Hermione set about her meal. She dutifully managed to get down the entire plate and was unsurprised when looking up, to find a glass of the ruby red juice had materialized in front of her. Beside this sat a small flask. The potion was translucent a orange this time. Suspicious she stared across at Snape who was calmly eating, his entire focus on the paper he balanced over his knee.

He did not acknowledge her, but she took the flask. Uncorking it she sniffed discreetly at the contents…Dragon heartstrings for strength…crushed or maybe flaked diamond for endurance… arnica, chickweed, comfrey, lavender... all healing herbs with nutritive properties. She inhaled again, there was the distinctive dryness at the back of her throat that spoke of blood…perhaps falcon or fire salamander…definitely a hint of tiger's tooth? or bone? And… more skelegrow, god the stuff smelled…pungent. Without further analysis she took a fortifying breath before bolting down the contents.

It was not pleasant causing her eyes to water slightly, but her body did not rebel against the draught and after several uncomfortable minutes she took the other glass, sipping slowly at tangy pomegranate. When he had finished his plate she rose and taking both plates walked to the sink. She could feel his considering and mildly disapproving glare settle on the back of her head. She ignored it and washed the plates setting them on the drying rack.

"A household spell is easily accomplished."

"For those with wands, but I feel useless enough as it is," so saying she turned to face him leaning back against the sink, bracing herself against the cabinets to disguise fatigue.

"Are small spells as difficult as more complex magic?" he inquired.

"No, but it is a waste of energy. I could perhaps complete five or six, before collapsing whereas healing or something more potent only three, but two is safer."

She could see Snape slipping into his role as a researcher, "I think that is more a symptom of having most of your energy focused on healing. It will be interesting to see what you can accomplish at full strength."

His eyes assessed her white knuckled grip on the countertop and he approached.

"Let me walk," Hermione protested.

Snape frowned slightly, but offered her his arm, apparently trusting the draught he had administered to have further strengthened her healing body. She accepted this help and allowed herself to be lead from the room. By the time they reentered what Hermione had come to think of as 'her' room Snape had wrapped his arm around her waist supporting the most of her weight. Only her vicious glare kept him from lifting her bodily.

Finally, he lowered the panting woman onto the couch, "Why do you insist on doing this?" he muttered exasperated.

"The more stress I put on the bones and muscles of my legs the harder my body's inner energies will work to strengthen those areas. Lucky we're not muggles…totally different for them, they don't have magic to encourage growth in physically weak areas. I'd probably just end up with hairline fractures…" she was rambling as he pulled his armchair around so he could face her on the couch.

He took her babbling for what it was, nerves, and proceeded on to business without pause.

"I do not wish to cause you pain," he began, "For this to work you must lower your mental shields…however I do not know if you will be able to consciously lower all of your protections… It will pain you if I enter those memories…I do not know if this is avoidable."

Hermione shrugged, carefully casual, "I will not fight it… I really can't promise beyond that… there are things in my mind even I cannot access anymore. I have trouble remembering before… when I can it's only bits and pieces…spotty."

Snape nodded, "Look at me."

She met his eyes. They were obsidian, hard, opaque, inescapable.

"Relax," he murmured.

She felt the press of his mind against hers and for a moment she resisted. She felt warm fingers close on her chin and his presence strengthened. She retreated deeper into her mind and felt him follow her in.

* * *

Snape knew he had pushed too hard, too fast. She wasn't resisting, there was no need for force at all. Between his momentum and her intense desire that he not see the bad memories he was propelled straight into one.

Her muddy brown eyes bored into him. He stood just inside the door of her cell. It was in the early, early days of her captivity… he knew because she still wore the tatters of a pair of jeans, though her shirt had been ripped down the front and back, it hung from her arms in tatters. She still looked relatively healthy. Her face was bruised almost beyond recognition, her gag had not yet been created and she knelt on the floor her arms strung up above her head, preventing her from falling fully to the ground. She knelt five feet from the wall, her chains magically extended, with Bellatrix behind her wielding an iron brand, spelled red hot.

"See how brave you are now, mudblood," the witch hissed.

Hermione made no response her head falling forward, long hair concealing her face and body as a low moan escaped her throat. Five times she was branded, the word mudblood marked out across her back in angry red and charring flesh.

Snape felt pressure against him and knew she was trying desperately to shove him out. It was too late though, since he had entered, he now had the upper hand. He felt a strange sensation as the wizard who was her keeper entered the room walking though his chest. The pressure of her mind against his increased, but he could not leave, he couldn't look away. He knew he could do nothing, but despite himself he walked closer. She was gasping and shaking, a hoarse scream assaulting his ears as the unnamed wizard ran a heavy hand down her back.

"Still so untouchable?" Bellatrix mocked.

She was struggling against the two now, but it made no difference. She was stripped, shoved to her hands and knees. Blood ran down her back in small rivulets, most of the wounds were cauterized but the whip marks were not. She did not scream, did not cry. He wanted to kill when the strange wizard knelt behind her, wanted to avert his eyes, but could not, when the man raked dirty, yellowed nails down her back making her whimper. He looked away when her face was pressed to the rough stone and he covered her bloodied back with his disgusting body. He closed his eyes when she cried out… just once.

She was silent as the beast that called itself a man rutted over her body. He could feel her emotions battering his mind. It was an endless loop, agony, fear, despair, resolve. It played unending, every horrible grunt and groan of the beast sending her down a spiral of agony and fear, despair engulfing her heart, her resolve strengthening and her anger blocking the pain for an instant. Then a heavy hand would touch her back and she would tremble in agony. Cringe back and crumple in despair… The pressure against his mind was growing, it felt as though he were damming the flow of a river, every second he resisted, the weight of the water increased. When Bellatrix began to giggle he let the torrent wash him away.

* * *

He was propelled out of her mind with such force he flew back into his chair, his hand ripped from her face as she collapsed. Both of them were gasping. She had covered her face. Bolting to her feet she tried to run, but her eyes swam with tears. He sat too close. She was too weak. With a sickening lurch she fell across his lap, a strangled whine catching in her throat.

He reached for her, but she lashed out shoving his hands away, thrashing against his gentle grip, sharp nails catching the backs of his hands and forearms. Realizing his own stupidity he dropped his hands. Pushing away from him she slid to the floor at his feet. Hermione curled into a small ball hiding her face.

"Damn you— Why did you watch!?"

"Hermione—"

"You know what happened! WHY did you have to WATCH my shame!" she screamed.

He reached out again his hand skimming lightly down her back. She was only just a hair on the side of too thin now. The ridges of her spine were just perceptible through his sweater. She trembled beneath his hand, but said no more. He bent slightly lifting her back up onto the couch. She turned her back to him.

"Not your shame, his, theirs, I witnessed only your strength," he murmured his hand resting lightly on her back where the word MUDBLOOD had once been branded.

"Another man's bitch… nothing more," she whispered.

"Don't be a fool. He is not a man, just a worm," he retorted.

"Do not say such meaningless things to me. Not when you intend to watch him do it again and again,"

He sighed and pulled back, "It is not meaningless. You are neither a fool, nor any man's cheap pleasure. You are one of my most brilliant students… though I would never have admitted so willingly, you are strong, a survivor. You are a Gryffindor with all that being so entails, yet cunning and quick of mind."

She made a small sound of disbelief, and bitter mirth, "You say so now, but you will see. I am nothing but a used, broken thing. Words are meaningless."

He grasped her shoulder, rolling her on her back so he could see her face.

She would not meet his eyes, "Show me then," he challenged, "You speak truth, no words of mine will ease your pain, they might have… they would have soothed the child you were. It was my blunder. Show me the bad and I will help you remember the good. It's still there. Only you have forgotten."

He caught her chin forcing her to look into his eyes. The amber pools were dark, like old mud and swam with a sheen of unshed tears. When he delved into her mind she did not fight him and he was able to move quickly past her surface thoughts to memory. He was cautious this time and did not fall straight into her memories as before. The memory bank of her mind appeared to him was like a large dark room with hundreds if not thousands of picture frames and objects cluttering the floor and walls, some memory objects were to the fore, but much of the room was shrouded in black.

He studied the room, finally making sense of it, unless triggered she could not access her memories beyond four years ago. He understood the dark shrouds, it was an effect of the dementors. A single pillar candle burned and he reached out taking it in his hand. He felt the familiar tug and cursed, the candle was a memory. Unwillingly, he was pulled in.

He was back in the cell, again he stood at the door. Hermione was thinner now, but only slightly, her hair was longer…perhaps a month or two since her capture. Her shirt sleeves still hung in tattered rings from her wrists…but that was all she wore. This time Bellatrix was alone in the room. Hermione had been gagged with the familiar iron bar. She held the large white candle in white knuckled hands.

"Now, it would make me very happy if you would pour the wax on your thigh," the elder witch crooned.

Hermione stared at her and made no move to comply.

"Bitch! Do as I say!"

Hermione shook her head. As if to say, do it yourself.

Bellatrix screeched once then she calmed. The change was so swift it was frightening, "_Wingardium Leviosa,_" she murmured taking control of the candle and leaving a trail of burning wax down the seated woman's leg. Hermione trembled and remained silent.

Bellatrix smiled wider, "_Incendio_," she hissed giggling as the line of wax combusted and Hermione writhed silently.

"Now that you understand. You do it." Bellatrix ordered.

Hermione shook her head.

"Vormis!" Bellatrix called out and Snape had the sense to step aside as the wizard, soon to be dead, entered the dungeon. The girl on the floor had a haunted look in her eyes as Vormis crossed the cell to stand beside his mistress.

"Now, mudblood, you will pour the wax and light it on fire, or I will let Vormis here have some fun with you first," Bellatrix triumphantly proclaimed her ultimatum enjoying the dread in her captive's eyes.

With shaking hands Hermione reached out and grasped the floating candle her chains clanking loudly in the silent room.

"Left thigh this time,"

Hermione sucked a deep breath and tipped the candle splashing the burning wax across her lap. Her entire body was tense as she weathered the cooling process.

"Now light the wax," Bellatrix crooned.

Hermione was shaking harder, but did as she was told lowering the burning candle to her skin. She caused more damage to her skin this way, between shaking hands and the imprecise flame it took several tries for her to light the first fleck of wax. Then the next and the next, by the fifth large splatter she was crying silently. Snape focused his eyes on her face as it contorted with pain. When she had finished she stared up at Bellatrix with hate filled eyes. The woman smiled down at her.

"Very good, wasn't that fun? I think I have a better idea now," the elder witch brandished her wand, "_Atramentum_,"

Black liquid splattered from the tip of her wand painting across Hermione's arms. Hermione cringed, but when the black substance caused no pain she straightened.

"Follow the ink with wax," Bellatrix drawled.

Snape looked away as Bellatrix played her cruel game painting ink over Hermione's skin, laughing as the girl writhed. When the woman finally grew bored she gave Vormis the candle letting him have at their toy.

Where she had not uttered a noise before she screamed now, Snape could not bring himself to leave her here. He knew, from watching the Dark Lord, that once a dark memory was awakened, she would continue to relive the memory no matter if he left. It was an act of respect for her that he stayed as a witness.

He resisted the urge to shudder as she screamed and screamed and _screamed_… he viciously reminded himself that he would be causing her to make the same sounds in the future.

No, he might make her scream and writhe in pain, but he would never be the cause of the gut wrenching cries she uttered now. Honest pain was better than this, he tried to convince himself. No man should make a woman sound like that. No man should treat another human like that. To be so sick a creature seemed unthinkable to Snape, a man who had thought he had witnessed just about every method by which to break the mind of another. Over and over the emotional loop her mind was replayed; agony, fear, despair, resolve. The loop was almost more tragic than what was done to her. It seemed so cruel for her to feel such blind desperation to survive when he knew she would endure this for years more.

When her tormentor's finally left her, she fell into what must have been a partial hallucination. Snape heard both Dumbledore's and McGonagall's voices perfectly produced in her memory both whispering soft encouragements to the broken body crumpled at the base of the wall. Reluctant, he cast dark eyes over her form, if by no other merit than her survival, the brilliant young woman deserved to have him face her. The disgust that rose in his throat, bitter bile, had nothing to do with the awkwardly sprawled body on the floor and everything to do with the fluid that painted her burnt form, and the man who would not live beyond the week.

The air around the girl seemed to shimmer with heat and he blinked. The voices of those beloved dead were increasing in volume and he wondered if he were actually viewing her hallucination. It was the only possible explanation as the air took on a pearlescent quality and the woman wearily rearranged her limbs, pushing herself up leaning against the wall.

He swallowed back hateful pity as the pale girl smiled, whispering soft assurance to her long dead professors that she would be just fine. At this proclamation the hallucination seemed to come to an end the cell fading back to its normal state.

Left to a sane, cruel world Hermione seemed to crumple and finally passed out, ending the memory.

He was back in her memory room and stood in the stillness for several minutes recovering…and allowing her to recover. He didn't know if she would endure another such mental rape. This was not meant to hurt her. Without moving he studied the room… her emotional loop kept coming back to bother him. Why was it the same? Would a more recent memory show the same unspeakable anguish followed by a seemingly unbreakable will to live, locked in eternal cycle? No man or woman who had ever come under his hand had ever retained such…will for more than a week.

It was another anomaly.

Crossing the room he grasped one of the black shrouds. Concentrating, he sunk mental hooks into the filmy shroud ripping it apart. The shroud had concealed a small game board. It was Wizard's Chess, yet each piece was just a little different, as if the board was an eclectic with every token taken from different sets. He was more careful this time. He had no desire to force her to relive another scene of torture. Snape hesitated a moment more, then he reached out and grasped the small white queen in his hand bracing himself as her mind pulled him further in.

* * *

Sorry for the late update, I've come down with a nasty cold and do nothing but sleep all day and drag myself to work and classes. It is quite awful. It would make my day however to hear your thoughts, comments, criticisms, flames, hate mail. Whatever, I'm under quarantine here, and would enjoy any interaction with the outside world ^_^

As always much love to everyone who left me a review.

Thanks for reading


	10. Chapter 10 - I Broke Me

Ch 10

I Broke Me

Snape looked around, instantly recognizing the Gryffindor common room. The golden trio was sprawled on the floor by the grate. The two boys were engrossed in a game of wizard's chess. The boys lay on their stomachs side by side the board in front of them, rather than between the two. Hermione was wedged between the boys. He could not place her age, but he suspected fourth or fifth year, before the world began to crumble.

A book of some sort was open in her lap, but she paid it no mind. Her real attention was on her companions. They were chattering happily, occasionally addressing her, but the conversation seemed to be centered on food at the moment and Hermione looked uninterested. Snape noticed that Hermione had managed to get her head propped up on Weasley's shoulder and her legs thrown over Potter's back.

She was smiling softly, listening with half an ear to the talk, commenting once in awhile. He wondered, as he watched the three interact who she really would have chosen… had she been given the chance. He couldn't imagine her choosing one over the other. He was trapped here, in the web of her emotions. However, that was unnecessary; the easy camaraderie would have been obvious to a blind man. It was clear that this was a familiar thing for the three and neither male seemed to find it at all odd that their friend was using them as head and foot rests. It was strange. With the way she stuck up for Weasley and Potter he had always assumed she was romantically involved with one or the other, but her warm, fierce protectiveness of her friends now seemed better categorized as something close to maternal. It was contentment, and pride, and a kind of patient goodwill. They were her boys and she loved them, the both of them, always.

Walking further into the room he settled into one of the large armchairs watching the girl. Unsurprisingly, Weasley won the game. Snape smirked as he watched the boys coerce Hermione into a game with Harry. He watched her play to a protracted loss and laughed at the warm surge of satisfaction she felt watching Weasley congratulate a stunned, but pleased Potter.

As the memory came to a close he decided he had intruded into her 'good' memories far enough and once he had returned to her memory room simply removed the shrouds. In respect to her he did not view these. It was slow work, some shrouds were heavier than others, some resisted his influence, others were simply hard to find. The room was large and shadowed, veiled memories were nigh invisible in the inky blackness. Passing one cluster of veiled objects he passed ghost fingers over them revealing several objects, meaningless to him. One caught his eye a frame had been destroyed, ink poured over the image, the frame gouged and scratched…as if some spell had wiped it from her mind.

Yet another anomaly…one was too many, not a coincidence… he began to comb through her memory room, several defaced memories, equally well disguised were discovered. Satisfied, of the pattern he finished banishing the last of the Dementor induced shrouds.

Then he turned his attention to the few 'defaced memories.'

He could tell some sort of spell had obscured them from her mind, but felt no foreign magic. In a far corner of her room he found a bent and battered shackle. It was barely recognizable as a manacle at all except for a few misshapen links that could still be made out in the pile of crushed metal. He was hesitant to touch it. Of anything in this room, it looked the most likely to trigger another atrocious memory in her cell. However it was the most recently erased memory. He picked it up.

There was no reaction. Turning it in his mentally constructed hands he probed it with magic. Snape studied the object, it had been destroyed…but at one time it had been whole. The manner it had been obscured was crude… not the working of someone bent on truly erasing it from her mind. Just concealing it, beyond the point of recall both willing and forced.

In passing, he wondered if it was wise to perform magic while entrenched in her mind, but uttered the spell before he could further consider the consequences, "_Catena Reparo._"

The shackle, which he now recognized had been obliviated reshaped itself to the traditional shape and proceeded to pull him into the memory.

He was in the cell. Mentally, he cursed, looking unwillingly toward the spot where he knew Hermione would stand, no doubt in agony. To his vast relief she was alone. It was the most recent memory he had viewed… but still from her first year with Bellatrix. She was not yet fully riveted to the wall, though her arms had been immobilized through attachment to the ends of a long iron bar. Her neck and ankles were attached to the wall by shackles and he doubted she could move more than a half meter in all directions. He could see the evidence of wounds old and new healing. The familiar gag was in place and she sat against the wall, staring blankly forward. He stared at the girl, unable to comprehend what this memory might be. Slowly he approached studying her. She sat utterly still only the fingers of her right hand twitching periodically.

Her emotions were running rampant, pain, sadness, but most strongly a kind of grim triumph. Reaching out he pressed ghostly fingers to her temples. He needed to see her thoughts. The memory was not enough to understand.

Through her mind passed a dozen scenes, each passing too quickly for him to process their import. One by one, she Obliviated them, eradicating the memories from her mind. She was crying, yet he did not know why, and delving deeper into the memory he realized she herself no longer knew either… the memory was gone.

Snape was transfixed, a single memory played before her mind's eye just long enough for him to view. It had occurred here in this cell. She was calmly and methodically manipulating her mind. It was a kind of mental trigger. She had irrevocably linked feelings of pain and despair with a burning desire to survive. Sealed the bond in blood and magic. He watched as this too was Obliviated. Tears fell faster and her hand convulsed one more time as she Obliviated current her action. He retreated from her thoughts watching as she came out of her trance. She was confused. She did not understand what had happened. It was unspeakably sad to watch her wipe blankly at her tears with stiff fingers, staring around herself in confusion.

'_Why am I crying?'_

'_What was I just doing?'_

'_Did I pass out?'_

'_Did I have a nightmare?'_

Her beffuddled thoughts echoed in his mind even though the memory was fading out. The pressure of her mind against him was increasing and he realized he had been wandering her mind for longer than was advisable. He was tempted to stay, to restore her Obliviated memories, but the pressure in her mind was building. She wanted him out _**now**_.

He tried to resist her wanting to at least try to repair some of her Obliviated memories. As traumatic as this experience was proving he seriously doubted Hermione would ever willingly let him into her mind again. He was losing the battle, in part because he was not entrenched in a memory, and in part because she had ousted him once and now understood what was necessary. He almost reached out and latched onto a memory to hold himself in her mind. He came within a hair's breadth of grabbing what appeared to be a hammer, but was saved from that harrowing experience by sheer luck when she set a kind of mental hook into him and expelled him from her mind.

Again he flew back, his neck snapping painfully with the force he struck his chair. She too had been thrown away from him and lay on her side trembling and clutching her temples, tears leaking occasionally down cheeks, too pale.

Her short, sharp huffs were a staccato counterpart to his ragged, panting gasps.

Neither moved to speak though Snape did reach into his robes removing a light purple vial. She did not want to take it, but he forced limp fingers to close around the vial and she choked it down not even bothering to investigate what he prescribed. Almost immediately the splitting headache abated and she sighed, tears flowing faster as her mind cleared of the pained haze and she recalled what had happened clearly.

She did not know if despair or joy triggered the waterworks, but the tears did not subside, even when both of their breathing rates returned to more normal levels. It was too much, too quickly, she was overwhelmed, overloaded, and numbed.

"Hermione?" Snape ventured in a tone betraying more uncertainty than she had ever considered him capable of expressing.

She was shaking harder and shook her head in negation of the inane question he did not give voice to, "No, no I'm not alright. You fucked around in my head," She had not chosen the words to wound but when he flinched at her phrasing her eyes flashed a bitter triumph, "I'm more messed up now than before, little bits of…of…of…" tears of frustration and pain came faster, her mind unable to cope, "bits, bits of it are in my head. Why? Why in hell did I—"

A full blown fit of hysteria was brewing and Snape could see it coming like a tidal wave. Reaching out he caught the hands which scrabbled at her face as if she wanted to physically claw the thoughts out of her skull and pulled them away from her cheeks.

"Hermione!" he barked.

She instantly ceased.

"Stop," he continued in a lower, gentler voice, "Just stop, it's not all back yet. You won't find it like this. Come, visit a good memory, they are there for you now," he almost crooned.

His words triggered something and she cried harder her knees curling up to her body as she tugged weakly on her wrists, trying to free them from his grip.

"They're dead," she gritted out woodenly. Her voice was steady despite the saline drops making shiny tracts down her cheeks.

Her solemn proclamation explained her tears perfectly. Snape let her wrists slip from his grip. They were dead, and could offer her little comfort or peace. He watched her curl in on herself, as if by that simple act she might hold everything together. He saw the agony on her face for a moment before she cowered back, hiding from his searching gaze.

"How can I help you?" he finally uttered, he had seen too much of her pain, he could witness no more tonight.

"My mind is ripping apart at the seams…" she trailed off, then in a small voice whispered, "It hurts."

Snape reached out and gathered the woman into his arms. At first, she stiffened, but he held her tightly to him, preventing her first violent thrash from doing more than bruising his sternum. She refused to acknowledge the futility of it and twisted ineffectually in his iron grip.

"Tell me to release you," he murmured softly. She jerked, twisting in his arms catching him once in the gut with her elbow before he caught both wrists pinning them to her chest. When she said no _**word**_ of protest, he leaned back into his chair cradling the woman in arms so unused to the task. It was not a soft embrace, but at the least she didn't have to keep giving herself that despairing self-hug. She struggled against him and he paid her little mind. It was absurdly simple to shift her in his arms trapping her so she could barely move to tremble. His left arm wrapped around slender shoulders keeping her wrists pinned to her chest, almost a prayerful attitude except for the white fisted hands. Her hip jabbed him sharply just below his ribs but he did not let up the pressure of his right arm about her midsection. She arched her body trying to buck out of his grip. He had her caged. Her lower extremities pinned between one muscled thigh and his strong chest. Their breath mingled, but her honeyed curls and the dark curtain of his hair concealed and gave privacy to faces made fleetingly open by shock and pain, compassion and regret.

Gradually, her tears slowed, and she ceased trembling. She was lying very still in his hold. Her taunt muscles began to relax and in return he loosened his firm grip on her hands, but did not release her fully. He removed the arm trapping her midsection and lowered his right foot back to the ground. When this shift did not trigger further struggle from her, he let her slide down into his lap. One hand freed he reached down resting his hand gently in her hair she shuddered at this somehow painfully intimate gesture and then relaxed accepting it. He pressed her face to his shoulder, stroking her hair gently, his roughened fingers catching in her silky, wild curls.

Neither spoke, he did not ask pardon for what he had seen. She did not curse him for knowing. It was done. No words of comfort or self condemnation passed their lips, he did not know them and she was too tired. His iron strength caging her so effectively, an embrace that spoke of strength and not softness. Instead it spoke of action and brought more comfort than any words. Finally released, she had no desire to leave his forced sanctuary. She had not really wanted to win free of his hold in the first place. It was fitting that by helping her he caused her pain and that his embrace was as hard and unyielding as it was warm. Were it otherwise, it would not be real.

The girl was beyond exhausted and eventually succumbed to fitful rest. Snape did not dare to remove her from his lap for fear of disturbing her well deserved escape from reality. A glance at a clock told him he had walked her memories for over five hours, he cringed internally to think of the pain he had caused spending so long in her mind. She was strong to be able to repel him despite such a prolonged session. It concerned him that his work was not yet done…

He ran a hundred scenarios, linking what he knew of her and his memories of that final year, trying to divine what she might have been so desperate to erase from her mind. It spoke of a nigh unbreakable strength of spirit to knowingly remove from her mind her reasons for survival. She must have truly feared Bellatrix would bring her before Voldemort… perhaps she had, Bellatrix knew bare enough Legilimency to get at surface thoughts, she could delve into an unprotected mind, but most any relatively capable Occlumens could repel her.

Hermione would have needed great confidence in her own ability to manipulate her mind. One wrong move or memory Obliviated out of sequence… at best she forgot her purpose and left memories that needed to be removed, at worst she wiped her memories fully, beyond hope of retrieval. He knew by how…relatively simple it had been for him to restore the memories she had always intended for retrieval to be possible. He doubted an intruder she was fighting off would have ever found the carefully obscured objects. Only because he had been given free rein to walk her mind had he noticed the defaced memories. Had she truly wanted to remove the memories, she would have completely destroyed even the traces of them.

Gently, he brushed the wild curls that had fallen across her face aside. Slowly, he tipped her chin, tucked protectively, defensively, in against her chest, up, supporting her head and neck more comfortably. Her cheeks still bore the tracts of tears, which he wiped away, studying her pale, still features. When he moved to cradle the curve of her delicate jaw and throat in his hand, feeling her pulse flutter against his palm, he froze.

What was he doing?

In all likelihood, he would kill or maim this strong, trusting, brilliant woman-child. And when he did she would look at him with those eyes. He had seen his victims look on him with hate, disgust, fear and finally emptiness... For the first time he feared that if he became much more involved he would not be able to endure the final message her eyes, honey gold to deep, deep brown, would hold for him.

Would it hurt as much to see that fragile, tentative trust, become cold, implacable hate in her eyes, after when they grew hazed and desperate...and blank, as it had when green, green eyes had suffered a similar transformation so long ago?

* * *

He let her rest till mid-afternoon when her dreams turned from restless to dark and her face spoke of shuttered agony and fear and his left leg was numb from mid thigh down. He saw now why he had not discovered it before this. She had trained her body to deal with pain by relaxing into it, and her body obeyed her dictates even in sleep. The only sign of her distress was in eyes that flicked erratically behind closed lids and a clenched jaw. But attuned to her pain as he was, having watched it seize her face and form demons behind her eyes both in memory and reality he recognized her unnatural stillness for what it was, the terrors of that cell and not deeper rest.

Reaching down he gently squeezed her shoulder. He was not completely surprised when she whimpered the action triggering ghost pain to seize her body, but it startled her, shook her from the rhythm of the dream. Her eyes flashed open and seized upon him, shadowed, but sharp, alert instantly to her position and, he saw in her dark eyes, how his position put her in danger. He retracted his hand quickly, watching her orient herself around his appendage too near her face, but no fear, simply awareness.

No fear… before he would have called it foolishness, empty, stupid, Gryffindor brashness. Now it seemed natural, where some allowed torture to make them terribly fragile, she had moved beyond that stage. She knew what there was to fear, and what was no longer worth fearing. He almost found the fact that he was not worth the effort of terror worthy of a smirk.

When he made no further moves Hermione sat up slowly, watching, always watching. Snape helped her ease herself out of his lap to stand. He looked only a short ways up to meet her eyes.

He began to speak but ceased when she made a short motion with her hand, "I know, it's not finished, but not now…" her voice caught slightly, sleep or stress it was hard to tell, "I can't."

Then she reached out her cool fingers touching his shoulder briefly before falling away, "Thank you," she breathed.

He inclined his head, accepting her inability to face another invasion of her mind. Rising he held her gaze, if she would give him no fear, he would return the honor. No pity shone in ebon dark, none fell from lips unaccustomed to such things.

"Come, eat, it will do you good."

"I'm not hungry," she said, not sure her stomach would take food, nausea stirred by the migraine increasing at the thought.

Severus smiled a strange smile, not so strange, as gentle, and she had never seen him do other than smirk, his eyes were far away and when his eyes turned back down to her they seemed almost warm.

"Yes, you are," he murmured in a similarly strange voice, "You haven't eaten since breakfast."

Confused by his attitude she nodded and allowed him to shadow her steps, ready to catch her at the first hint of faltering. It came soon enough, and she did not argue when he calmly carried her the rest of the way.

* * *

I hope you all enjoy a slightly softer side of Snape… poor dear he's getting sucked in… and he still thinks he can avoid it… well maybe he can, we'll see ^_^

Much love to my reviewers.


	11. Chapter 11 - Weighty Words

Ch 11

Weighty Words

When she had finished the bowl of pasta and was only puttering about the kitchen on shaky legs struggling to keep down the meal Snape gave up pretending to read the horticulturists text in his hands.

Carefully, he glanced over at her. He did not wish to embarrass her by watching her occasional convulsive retching motions. He was quite familiar with the horrible squeezing and pressing of the innards and eye watering, painful swallows that followed her every attempt to eat a meal. She had been quiet for a few minutes now and so he thought it might be safe.

She was standing with her back to him, the strong afternoon sun came in over the sill from the small window above the sink giving her a bright hallow. She was leaning forward slightly, and he wondered what was occupying her attention. Tilting his head slightly to the left he saw the tips of her fingers pressed lightly to the sun warmed glass. Oh…oh…

"Hermione? Would you like to go outside?" He asked carefully, knowing he had failed in his intent when she snatched her hand back from the glass, whirling to face him with wide, fearful eyes.

Mutely she shook her head.

He hadn't even thought… hadn't considered. He had assumed that she understood. He saw himself as her guardian—for lack of a better term, she need only tell him her needs and he would provide for them… but no. What she saw, deep down, was a very nice prison cell, and he an indulgent keeper.

She was very, very good at this game, _letting_ him win her over, _making_ him woo her trust… She was playing a very enticing damsel in distress, giving him what she thought he wanted, what others had wanted before.

What was Hermione? Was she something broken? Just holding together the broken pieces of herself, reflecting back what he wanted to see, what he needed to see. Or was she the resilient, strong, fierce woman she sometimes forgot to hide, but hurt, and insecure, and afraid that every free breath she took might be her last, struggling with the animal part of her that was still living in that cell.

* * *

Hermione's heart fluttered like a panicked bird in her breast. She had displeased him. She could see it in those dark eyes. She had displeased him, and now he would finally show his true colors.

She hadn't been thinking, she had been so distraught, so tired. Not just today… before this. She'd been letting herself become so comfortable with him…relaxing around him. She'd let him into her mind for God's Sake! Let him see, what NO ONE. Not Bellatrix, not the Dark Lord had ever been able to wrest from her. She'd begun to truly trust him.

Would she never stop playing the fool?

His low voice cut through her spiraling panic like a knife, "If you want to go outside, you may. My property is just as safe for you as my house."

With difficulty she forced bloodless lips to form words, "No thank you, Sir."

He rose to his feet and she trembled, fighting the desire to flee.

"Hermione, I'm Severus, Severus your friend, not Sir, not Headmaster. I will not hurt you for telling me what you need."

She shook her head again, gripping the counter behind her for support. It was not enough, when he stepped towards her, blind instinct and the wall at her back broke her courage, her traitorous legs making a break for the door. As ever, she did not get far, and then large hands were upon her.

Hurting

Grasping

Pain!

* * *

She was relapsing. He could see her shutting down, back into the shell of a woman that had survived in that cell for four years.

When she ran, he knew it for the adverse reaction to his presence in her mind for so long. Fully rational Hermione would never have run, knowing the only possible result was being caught, but scared, reactionary, exhausted Hermione, oh she would run, and did.

Until his body intercepted her flight, wrapping her up in strong arms as she thrashed, crying out in fear. He was grateful she seemed too deep in the episode to realize she did have her magic. He had no doubt that clearheaded she could kill him if she so chose, this close to him, inside the circle of his arms, coded into his wards, her hands separated from heart and lungs by a few layers of skin, muscle, and bone, nothing really, in the world of magic.

"Hermione… Shhh… I'm not going to hurt you. You are safe here. You need to stop panicking for me. If you stop I can let you go."

Instantly she froze. As promised he released her, stepping back, arms low, hands palm up and away from his body, away from his wand.

She was breathing quickly, each breath shallow and harsh, her eyes very wide, her pupils dilated taking in every nuance of his stance.

"Hermione?"

"Please…forgive me, Severus… I am overwrought. A moment, _please_."

* * *

Snape let her alone for the rest of the day. She, like he, wore masks, and it was hard. They were both formed by the war, both molded by fear and treachery and betrayal. It was impossible to view another without watchful assessing eyes. Always, even with allies, alert for danger, never giving too much away. She had just begun to trust him and he had done worse than harm her, he had ripped memories from her mind, invaded the protective shield that kept her strong. He knew how she operated now and that put her at a terrible disadvantage, for she could not yet predict him.

He understood. She needed time, on her own to take down her shield, relearn her own mind, and see what he had done there. She needed time, to reinforce her façade, to shore it up against him and what he knew. She needed to buttress her mental fortifications.

This instinct was so well cultivated in himself he did not wonder that she needed time, he did not even stop to consider that most any other being would not desire to be left alone with their thoughts. Her mind was very like his… analytical. Her thought patterns, always quick and clear, always preparing, if this then this, how to react, how to interact, running scenarios almost to quickly for the outside observer to follow, using her vast knowledge to predict and beguile, the spark of her innate intelligence and talent humming, she knew much more, felt much more than she ever let on.

He knew what he would desire, after such an invasive attack on her person and gave it to her.

* * *

When she emerged from his library in the late afternoon and found her way into his lab there was a subtle change in her. Her body was responding well to his treatment, moving with a smooth ease that had been absent before now. But more than her body had been brought to heel. She exuded a sense of steady control, too iron clad to be named tranquility, but too subtle to be named resolve. It was a beautiful front, complete to the last detail. Her hands were open, dry palmed, her arms held loosely at her sides, not tight, tucked in, tensed, her head was held at a careful tilt, lifted enough so she could canvas the room at a glance, but not so much as to offer a challenge . It was truly a thing of beauty.

She hung in the doorway, knowing well not to enter a potions lab barefoot, under any circumstance where potions were brewing. He was bowed over several medium sized cauldrons, the one that concerned him was currently shifting between a milky white and pale yellow.

Without glancing her way he motioned her toward the nearby cabinet where he kept extra dragon hide boots for the rare occasions when one of his potions went wrong enough to destroy his current pair.

Cautiously, he stirred the brew once counter clockwise grimacing slightly when the added stimulus tipped the delicate balance and the potion settled to a ghastly yellow color reminiscent of mold, and began to hiss, bubbling angrily.

"Ironwood, yew, obsidian, hogweed, belladonna, mandrake, and…venom of some sort," he heard her muse.

Most of his attention was on the botched brew as he scrawled notes on a sheet of parchment on the table. His usually neat, small, spiked script was more ragged here marred by splatters of volatile potions, viciously crossed out lines, ink blots. He put a large black X over buckeye wings.

She was still musing aloud and had moved closer, but not into his work space, "Yew for thought, the mind and the higher self, ironwood and obsidian to strengthen, to harden, and reflect rather than refract. Then belladonna…hallucination, false thought? hogweed…blinds doesn't it? "

He answered absently, crossing the room and pulling down a heavy tome flipping through the thing impatiently, "Yes, what you thought was venom is basilisk scales, less potent than the venom, with mandrake to counteract its deadly effects. Buckeye wing seems to have had disastrous effect."

"Not a befuddlement brew…but something similar?" she queried.

"If something very like Legilimency can be achieved through veritaserum. In theory, at least, one should be able to brew a draught to occlude the mind."

Hermione nodded, understanding dawning, "The wings would have interacted badly with the hogweed…why not substitute peacock feathers for the wings?"

Snape was shaking his head, "That will counteract the obsidian…"

"Burn the feathers and use the ashes."

Snape looked up from _Moste Deadly Interactions_ to consider the proposal. It was sound… although possibly explosive…

Turning to his shelves he retrieved the feathers. Chopping the feathers finely he put the iridescent bits into a well used mortar. At a word they burned, just a quick flash, and an acrid smell like burning hair, with the pedestal he ground the remainder to a fine ash. With care he sprinkled the soot over the surface of one of the control cauldrons. The liquid frothed momentarily and he hastily cast up a shield around the cauldron. Then as they watched the potion calmed and turned an inky black, the cloying scent of belladonna filling the room.

Both brewers shook their heads slightly clearing the numbing sensation from their minds.

"That might have worked," Hermione mused.

Snape smiled slightly in response. As a general rule he did not like people in his lab when he brewed, as an all encompassing life law, he did not like people in general, around him, watching him, ever. Hermione, he did not mind. She reminded him of another girl who had loved to brew, who, unlike this one, had sat quietly and watched and when she acted did so with sure competence that often had rivaled his. That girl had not trusted his expertise, had always operated on the premise that he did not quite know what he was doing… and at that time, she had been more right then she knew. She had kept him from blowing his own head off so many times it was laughable.

He quickly bottled the small test brew. He used a quick evanesco to vanish the failed yellow batch and casting a stasis spell on the milky, untouched cauldron's. If this proved ineffective he could continue his experimentation. Then he noted the change of peacock ash for buckeye wings in his brew, leaving solid black triangle at the end of the line, his shorthand for practical trials still to be carried out.

God… he had not missed the scent of feathers, pine, and fire in his lab for over fifteen years.

* * *

Hermione watched the Potion's Master work with hard to conceal curiosity. This was truly his art. He moved like a different man, the deep furrows and frown lines of his face had relaxed and for the first time he looked his age, ten years simply melting from his visage. It was a pleasure to watch. His touch was sure and quick. He worked with fine precision.

Though she knew he had seen her she did not want to speak and interrupt his work. Instead she watched him. Here, he was not her professor, and he was not the Death Eater who had killed Dumbledore, he was not even the inscrutable man who, for reasons unknown, had momentarily freed her from her hellish existence. She had seen glimpses of this person in the last week, but it hadn't really registered. This man was…at peace. He was at peace, while the world burned. This was his sanctuary.

She almost left him to this little haven when he motioned at the cupboard. She felt like she was invading something almost sacred.

"Shoes," he muttered turning all his attention back to his work. Opening it she found a pair of large, black, dragon hide boots, slipping these over her small bare feet she walked closer settling herself on the edge of an empty lab table near enough to see, but not in his workspace.

He worked on in silence.

She couldn't quite believe when she spoke up that he actually responded. Actually, answered the questions that formed as she watched him work. Couldn't help herself, she missed… purely intellectual pursuits. And after her episode, she needed to remind herself she wasn't in that cell. When he had finished his potion, he looked pleased. It was a good look on him. Approaching her perch the relaxed air in his manner did not flee and with an unthinking practical efficiency she had come to associate with Snape when he was not consciously analyzing the situation too closely he easily transfigured the boots down to a size she might be able to walk about in without sounding like a herd of baby hippogriffs. She saw it as a kindness. He didn't need to know that.

She nodded her quiet thanks, she didn't want to shatter his peaceful mood, but it was necessary, "I think I can take another session…I'm going a little batty over-analyzing the fragments." It was the understatement of the year.

As expected his features shifted into the cool mask she was familiar with, "I don't want to push your mind too fast, it will cause you pain…are you sure you can allow the intrusion knowing what it will be like?"

Slipping off the table to stand before the large man she nodded firmly, "There is very little that is worse than what you have seen… and I have never shied from some necessary pain."

He accepted this and lead her back to the sitting room. He had no desire for them to be blasted apart where either of them might collide with anything more hazardous than furniture cushions.

Studying her unobtrusively he watched her force tension out of her frame, a quiet repose on her face that was contradicted by the darkness of her eyes. But she did not hesitate to sit opposite him did not look away from his piercing black gaze. In respect to her he tried not to linger in her surface thoughts.

He need not have been concerned; she was concentrating so single mindedly on reflecting tranquility it worked as a non-magical occlumency. He had trouble getting past the barrier of blankness and had to push. He heard her faint gasp of pain in the real world as he sunk into the lower layers of her mind.

The memory room was a far brighter place now, her good memories almost seeming to cast a soft luminescence into the room. It made locating the damaged memories much easier.

Gathering the obliviated memories, he decided to begin with the oldest one, hopefully he would understand the full story. It took some sorting but eventually he found a heap of ash with scorched black pages still almost recognizable in the decaying pile.

"Tabula Reparo," he murmured placing feather light fingers over the blackened crisps of paper. Beneath his hands the book quickly reformed. Its binding pulling together the thick leather cover growing glossy and dark red. He saw the title, _Defeating the Dark_, emboss itself down the spine and the pages formed, before the memory pulled him in.

…

The warm, well lit room was very familiar, though it looked much more inviting in her memory than the headmaster's office looked now. Hermione was seated in one of the large chairs across from the headmaster's desk engrossed in the book. Walking up he stood beside the girl, viewing the page over her shoulder. On the opposite page of the book she had a parchment marked with a multitude of notations in small, precise script, none of the flowery, rounded bubble letters for Miss Granger, as with everything else she was practical. After a moment a soft thump startled both of them. Her head, bowed in concentration over the book, came up suddenly and she twisted to face the door, where the tall familiar figure of the late Headmaster stood, his blue eyes twinkling merrily down at Hermione.

"I see you have found Matridge's book to be insightful, Miss Granger?" the kindly voice inquired.

Hermione nodded and realizing this might be too familiar a response spoke, "I have Headmaster, thank you very much for recommending it. I had never considered that…" she trailed off noting that her elder was laughing silently at her and remembering that this was not a class, she smiled slightly and ducked her head, "Yes, thank you Headmaster," she amended.

"I am glad. One never knows what it might be helpful to know, in the long run. Forgive me for keeping you waiting."

"Not at all, Headmaster."

Dumbledore was moving to sit behind his desk and Hermione closed the book almost reverently giving the bearded wizard her full attention.

"There is something I have been meaning to speak to you about," he began watching her pensively over steepled hands.

"Is it about Harry, sir? I keep telling him he needs to talk to someone about those headaches of his…" she trailed off sheepishly.

Dumbledore smiled kindly, "While I am glad you are concerned for your friend that is not why I have requested your presence here."

Hermione nodded keeping her mouth shut to prevent herself from playing the fool for the third time tonight. She seemed to do that an awful lot around Dumbledore. It was mainly his fault she had decided, he kept changing how he treated her, one moment as a student, the next as an adult, it kept her off balance, and unsure how to respond.

"I want to speak to you about an important matter. Now, you must forgive me if I seem vague. It is vital that you listen to what I have to tell you and ask no questions. I am telling you all that it is necessary for you to know at this time," his blue eyes, sharper now, waited for her quick nod before he continued, "In war sacrifice must be made in order to attain the greatest good for the greatest number of people. One rarely knows beforehand, what that choice will be. If you recall, in your first year here, both you and Mr. Weasley came to the astute assumption that Harry was the member of your group who needed to be preserved. I am telling you now that this is no longer so true as it once was. I want no foolish self-sacrificial acts on your part Miss Granger. Each of you must survive, on your own merit, and you are… perhaps more vital to the war than Harry."

Hermione was seconds away from blurting out at least seven of the hundred and fifty-three questions tumbling about behind her firmly sealed lips. Seeing this, Dumbledore smiled his familiar, 'I am simply a doddering old man' smile and waved her off, "Best head off to bed, Miss Granger, I have kept you from your rest later than I intended."

"But Sir—"

His periwinkle eyes glimmered merrily up at her and defeated she turned away slipping silently from the room.

The memory ended abruptly when the door closed behind the girl and Snape was once more in her mind holding the innocuous book in his hands. He was feeling violently reminiscent of many of his own encounters with Dumbledore throughout the many years of their close acquaintance.

A splintered pile of wood lengths some bent wire and ripped fabric became a plush purple chair, evocative of the kind Albus would conjure for himself and others to sit in at the wave of an aged hand. Touching the plush fabric he let the familiar pull drag him under.

…

He was standing behind the very same purple armchair he had restored in her memory room and Hermione was seated in it. She had still more books and journals spread out over her lap and the arms of the chair. He wondered just why she seemed to be so familiar with the Headmaster's library, but then Dumbledore entered and Hermione looked up from her reading material nodding a silent greeting.

"Ahh! Miss Granger," Dumbledore exclaimed "I am glad you have helped yourself to some of my books. I seem to be having a terrible time getting to these meetings I summon you for with any semblance of punctuality. You have my thanks for waiting so patiently."

"Have you more cryptic tidbits for me, Headmaster?" she inquired with a rueful smile.

His face creased slightly in an almost dotting smile and he bobbed his head companionably, "Indeed, Miss Granger, you have judged me correctly. Are you familiar with prophesy records?"

Hermione shook her head, "I'm afraid I've never put much stock at all in divination, sir."

"Ah, well… I believe you should, my dear, yes. It would be terribly wise of you to place more stock in true prophesy. A prophesy record is a spelled memory of every prophesy ever made, they are stored at the Ministry of Magic. You might find it enlightening to look at Madame Zoestra's book, _True Sight or Ominous Poetry: A Study of Divination_." he fell silent then, watching the girl seated in his office, cunning intelligence working rapidly behind her bright, youthful eyes.

"Is that all, sir?" she asked after a few moments.

The old wizard started slightly, "Indeed no! I forgot to offer you a lemon drop, how terribly rude of me," he rummaged momentarily in his robes producing the familiar brown paper bag, "Lemon drop?"

The girl sighed softly and rose from her seat tucking the books under her arm, "Thank you, sir, but no."

He smiled brightly at her, "Are you quite sure?"

"Yes, quite. I never sleep well if I eat sugar late at night, but thank you for the offer," Hermione declined again as she made for the spiral stair.

"Miss Granger?" the headmaster called out just as she extended her hand for the door.

Stopping and turning to face him Hermione waited.

"You will remember won't you? If a time comes when all seems lost, and every hope has been permanently snuffed out, if you are alive there is still hope for the future."

"Just a general inspirational quote, sir, or is this particular to me?" Hermione asked in a tone that said she had asked many such questions before and been answered only by silence.

"It is you to whom I am speaking, is it not, Miss Granger?" was all Dumbledore said, an expression of surprise flashed over Hermione's face that he had spoken at all.

The memory again ended abruptly and Snape suspected it had something to do with the fact she had… edited these memories into segments she could easily 'delete' and not leave noticeable gaps in her memory.

He found a black quill that had been bent and crushed, a silver glob of metal melted over the nib rendering it useless. A now familiar spell made the feather whole, it's nib separating from the metallic scrap revealing a pen and inkwell set, the inkwell a small silver serpent, small green peridot gems set as its eyes.

Instead of the headmaster's office Snape saw they were sequestered in a back corner of the library. By the lack of lighting in the room he suspected he was witnessing one of the many times she had been discovered in the library afterhours too engrossed in her studies to mind curfew.

She was rapidly writing what he recognized was a potions essay he had assigned just after the winter holidays. Suddenly, the plain brindled feather in her hand squirmed turning black as her plain, red glass inkwell morphed into the little green eyed serpent that bookmarked the memory in her mind.

She jumped at the change her eyes flying up to assess her surroundings her wand already half out of her sleeve. Then she saw the familiar white haired head stroll out from between the shelves and immediately relaxed.

"Out a bit late doing potions, aren't you, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore inquired in cheery greeting.

Hermione yawned glancing at the small clock over the study desk she was seated before and jumped, "Oh, forgive me, sir, I hadn't noticed the how late it was… I did not mean to break curfew."

But the headmaster was waving this tiny misstep with a careless gesture, "I do believe this is one of the more harmless ways in which you have broken the rules at your time here, and to speak frankly, this one I would be hard pressed to find fault with. How do you find O.W.L. level potions?"

She cocked her head just slightly, debating if this was more cheerful chit chat or something she ought to study further, "Well, it is certainly one of my more difficult courses this year, but at least one is always assured of learning something useful."

Dumbledore nodded sagely, "Yes, and how do you find Professor Snape?"

Her dark brows quirked slightly, "Uh… He is… I think…I suppose…"

Dumbledore laughed softly at her verbal stumbling, "It's no trick question, what is your disposition towards him?"

Her brow furrowed further, "I respect him as an instructor and a wizard. He is highly skilled… and despite strict teaching methods has turned out a full fifth year class that can easily be expected to pass their exams with satisfactory if not higher. You trust him… so I suppose I haven't an antagonistic disposition towards him…like some," as she spoke she had plucked up the transfigured serpent inkwell and was fiddling with it, "He is the head of Slytherin so I suppose house loyalty says I should be, but Ron and Harry bring more than their share."

Dumbledore smiled at this, "Indeed, Miss Granger, thank you for answering truthfully. It might help to remember that before Voldemort rose, Slytherin was known for turning out some of the most powerful and brilliant wizards of their age. Merlin himself was Slytherin, and one can argue, he did more to foster good relations between Muggles and wizards than any other by establishing the Order of Merlin."

"The award?" she inquired

"No, the Muggle rights organization. You might find more on it in _Two Species, One World: The History of Muggle and Wizard Interaction_," Dumbledore supplied, then the enigmatic old wizard began to hum what Snape could have sworn was a rather crude ditty the third year boys had come up with as he wandered down a different aisle.

Taking her eyes from the retreating man's back Hermione gathered up her books quickly. Snape followed her to the library doors and was not completely surprised to find Dumbledore was standing outside the library waiting for her.

He smiled kindly down at her and gestured for her to walk with him, "It occurs to me, that given the current school oversight, it might be unwise for you to wander the halls unescorted. Whereas I do believe, most of your professors would let you off. I would not want our little talk to cost you house points."

"Thank you, sir," she responded in surprise falling into step about a pace behind the tall wizard.

They walked quietly up several flights of stairs, before Dumbledore spoke, "I have discovered an interesting phenomena concerning prophesies. Over eighty percent of the time a prophesy pertains neither to single persons or groups, rather they reference two parties. Furthermore, if these two are not mortal enemies, then they are staunch allies. You might find it useful to remember that it is usually the ones we distrust the most deeply who become our greatest strengths."

He had timed it perfectly, as his last word faded to silence the fat lady interrupted with, "Password?" and Dumbledore took the opportunity to vanish before she could formulate a question.

…

One by one the memories were repaired and he watched her listen to Dumbledore's words.

…

In a note on the corner of a book he had warned, _'Even the greatest can fall.'_

A passage in a text underlined in brilliant purple that vanished as she read, _'Only once in recorded history has a true prophesy been turned aside. This occurred because the destined person in question committed suicide to avoid their fate.' _

Another book read, _"Most Seers see visions of immanency to their own times and their own struggles, but occasionally prophesy will appear out of time."_

In the final memory, this one from only two months after Dumbledore's death and a little under a month before Harry and the Weasley family's death, Hermione was reading _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. The tent was empty of anyone save her and her small exclamation of surprise when she saw the short missive on the rightmost margin of the page went unnoticed, _'It is my greatest hope that you will remember well the lessons you learned at Hogwarts. May they bring you hope when all seems lost.'_

He removed himself from her mind gently as the final memory dimmed.

She was gripping the couch cushions with white knuckled fingers, a pinched look on her face.

"I lingered too long. Your mind has been stressed."

She grimaced and closed her eyes her hands lifting to press her temples, "Damned migraine is what my mind has."

Snape stood and several minutes later returned with a phial of conscious clarity. It was a shimmering silvery grey and gave off clear vapors that smelled strongly of rosemary and sage.

She tossed it back like one might a shot of absinthe and kept her eyes screwed shut until the pain began to ease.

"What does it mean?"

Hermione shrugged opening honey brown eyes, "I didn't know then…only after everyone else was gone, I began to hope that maybe…I don't know… you only saw what I felt might give anyone invading my mind hints. There was more, but it was less ominous. At the time I couldn't fathom why he was so determined to convince me of the legitimacy of divination."

"Is there a prophesy concerning you at the ministry?" he asked her.

She shook her head, "I don't know. He was careful to never give me anything concrete. Did he say anything to you? He spoke of you several times,"

He shook his head, "No, nothing."

She closed her eyes, "Then we have nothing. I am simply losing my mind. My magic is going haywire, perhaps I accidentally stole your memory of his death, and it backfired on me."

Snape frowned, "Hermione, you did not kill Dumbledore or watch him die, you were killed. You reacted strongly enough to the…I hesitate to say memory, that you stopped breathing."

She shivered in remembrance, "It hurt…"

"I will look into it. I will see what can be found," he assured her.

She nodded slowly and stood up, "I need. I'll just…" she shook her head tiredly and walked away, to the library he assumed, to recuperate.

He made a mental note to give her something to ease her sleep tonight, she deserved a restful night.

* * *

And the plot thickens! Hello, my dears, I hope you are enjoying the prospects of valentines, alone for me, but perhaps our lovely couple will have more luck than their lonely authoress ^_^ A longer than usual chapter for you, god knows where it came from, it just did.

To my reviewers, I wish you many candy hearts this year.

To everyone else, in lieu of valentines, I would adore reviews.


	12. Chapter 12 - Reign of Terror

Ch 12

Reign of Terror

The ministry of magic had become almost unrecognizable in the last four years. Since the overthrow the ministry building had been enlarged, upward by ten levels as it was deemed no longer necessary to be so concerned about noninterference with the Muggle world. Of the remaining nine subterranean levels from before the reign of Voldemort, the four bottommost levels, excepting the final, had been converted into dungeons, for the select prisoners the Dark Lord deemed important enough to keep closer at hand than Azkaban. The fountain in large entry hall held only a wizard now, the other creatures having been demolished shortly after Voldemort moved his headquarters here.

While most wizards still had to enter the ministry through the usual tedious methods, any of Voldemort's handpicked members, the ones who bore his mark, could Apparate into any of the upper levels of the Ministry at will. This change had been made after a low level Death Eater had been tortured within an inch of his life for responding too slowly to the Dark Lord's summons. When the reason for his tardiness was revealed Lucious Malfoy saw to it that none of the Lord's more senior followers would make the same mistake. Snape felt the wards flutter against him with recognition before withdrawing as he strode without a word past the thin, sharp featured witch at the front desk. She made no protest to stop or detain him to check his wand, he was too well known a face here. While a face might be stolen the abilities imparted by the Dark Mark could not. All of the lower denizens of this place knew what came of delaying or in any way interfering with any of the wizards and witches who had stood with _The-Overlord-of-All-Britain_ during his first rise to power.

The Department of Mysteries had been deemed too sensitive to risk relocation from the lowest, ninth subterranean level of the ministry, so Snape began the slow descent into the bowels of the ministry, through the dungeons, to reach the hall of prophesy. This was his place, his presence in the four dungeon sublevels was unquestionable, and with Bellatrix banished from the presence of the Dark Lord till her face healed, he was it's one master, though other Death Eaters of the first order could and often did come down here to… entertain themselves. Truly, it was a rare thing for his duties to take him past the first dungeon level, he did not deal with the poor wretches whose fate it was to serve as sick amusement to the Dark Lord's followers, forever held close at hand. He only dealt with those brought immediately before the ministry for truly heinous blood-crimes. The lowermost level of the dungeon was for long term containment cells, no one stayed in the upper levels longer than a month. If they were not killed, or released (a rare thing indeed) they soon found themselves transferred to a lower level.

Entering the lowest dungeon level he passed the vile creature that played at being a man at his post, a small office-like room just across the way from the stair. He was determined to pass him by and head right on down to the next level. It would be a great risk if he were to kill the worm in broad daylight, unprovoked. People would ask what had set off the imperturbable headmaster, people would question. No, the man would die a slow and painful death, choking on his own blood as his lungs corrupted themselves and his viscera liquefied. His body would appear untouched, the poison too subtle to be noticed even if anyone decided to investigate the death of one so lowly as this.

He might have done it too, if the bastard Macnair had not called out, detaining him, "Snape!"

Slowly he turned to face the pinched, small man who exited one of the iron bolted doors that lined the long hall. Walking the requisite four steps back up and he stepped out of the stairwell fully into the lowest dungeon level.

"Macnair," he responded in a flat tone.

The other Death Eater, familiar with Snape, backed down upon meeting the other man's deadening gaze. He was not a gifted or terrifically powerful wizard, truly only a vicious thug who enjoyed the easy, permissible violence being a follower of the Dark Lord afforded, but he had been among the great powers that the Dark Lord drew to his side for long enough to understand instantly now was not a time to interrupt the man who was most favored by their Lord.

The worm, Vormis, was not so familiar with the ways of one Severus Snape and did not know the peril in speaking.

"Sir, how have you enjoyed your toy?" the beast inquired exiting his office and entering the hall standing far too close to Snape not to offer terrible temptation.

The desire to utterly destroy the man was strong, at this instant, stronger, possibly, than his desire to see the Dark Lord meet an untimely end.

Macnair loosed an unpleasant chuckle at the worm's expense as the Headmaster's permanent glower sharpened exponentially. The soon-to-be-dead low life did not sense his peril.

Macnair incapable of not encouraging wanton violence spoke softly, a mocking smile curving his thin, too red lips, "Indeed, Snape, a toy? I don't believe it. You joining us lower creatures on this level, soaking in the sounds of anguish."

Snape recognized the conspiratorial tone, the bloodlust lurking in muddy blue eyes, and for once was unable to resist the bait.

Black eyes flicked down to meet blue and they shared the premonition of blood, "And right you would be. These things are ruined creatures. There's no beauty in their broken cries."

Macnair, almost bursting with dark pleasure at having lured one usually so immaculately above such baseness into his game, smiled, showing decidedly more teeth than was healthy for their unsuspecting victim, "Ahh, then you must have found one worthy of your high standards. What toy met your pleasure? May I see her? or is it a him?"

Snape sneered, "Not all of us indulge so wantonly and risk bringing bloodfilth into our lord's pure world," black eyes turned a distinctly penetrating stare to the bloodfilth standing near the two pure bloods. Snape smirked slightly to himself, he like Voldemort, had long cast off his half-blood status. As the recognized first lieutenant of the Dark Lord, he was the equal of any pure-blooded wizard.

Vormis, finally seemed to have caught onto the malevolent aura put off by these two, powerful, high ranking Death Eaters and looked particularly nervous at this last comment. Both of the men were, at least to public knowledge, more partial to the untainted blood-violence of the thing.

"Of course, Snape, I jest. Have you found the creature satisfactory to your purposes?" Macnair questioned solicitously, turning his smile of promise on the frightened thing that stood near Snape not daring to move to back away from these two.

Snape nodded companionably, "Quite, save in one aspect."

It was a game, a cruel game. Giving the victim not even the satisfaction of his tormentor's full attention. It mattered not that Snape and Macnair would never normally converse. It mattered not that under normal circumstance such a familiar address by Macnair would result in him crutiated by the Dark Lord's Lieutenant. This was a game, a blood game, one Snape had acted out before but never really submerged himself in as he did now joining Macnair in the little theater. Macnair strolled almost lazily around to trap the worm between them.

He began toying with the thin leather whip he held coiled tightly in his right hand, "And what failing might she have?"

Snape's wand too had been taken in hand and rested lazily between long, pale fingers, "Not, innate, I assure you. She is a captivating creature, her cries so pure, her skin perfectly white," he smiled a dark smile, "I only wish she had not come to me damaged in a way I could not reverse… such a careless thing, to damage the creatures here beyond repair."

Vormis jumped when the whip whistled out drawing a line of blood from his ear.

"And this bloodfilth responsible?" Macnair prompted.

Snape struck a deep gash into its knee at a word severing vocal cords that worked fruitlessly to express the anguish of the crumpling form, "Hn, there is nothing I can do to force nerves to regrow themselves into flesh that has been burnt to the bone. So pointless, they feel nothing once a burn is past the third degree. She is woefully unresponsive to anything done to her back."

"An amateurish mistake really," Macnair agreed the whistle of the whip accenting his words.

"A real shame, she's perfect in every other way. Not like this thing, spineless, weak. She has such power, and so fearless too. How her proud eyes curse me. Just a moment of carelessness and she would kill me. It's beautiful." Snape murmured watching the thing writhe helpless and silent on the ground. Normally, he hated to put forth this persona, but the hatred was subsumed by fierce pleasure, and his hand urged onward by the memory of a woman's strangled, anguished cries.

He convinced himself it was for her honor that he inflicted such pain, and reveled so in the breathy shrieks that whispered past severed vocal cords, but the darkness in him enjoyed it for wholly different reasons. Rage, so familiar, so strong, was released from his firm control and ran rampant and hot through his veins. Usually he held himself above such vicious, violent pleasure, but his acceptance of the action allowed the baser emotions in him to creep out from under the heavy chains of shame and guilt.

"You will keep her then? Despite the damage?" Macnair asked as he slowly deepened the whip weal he had made across the jugular of their victim.

"Oh, yes, she is mine. It is no matter that this bloodfilth spoiled her, at least it won't…"

The leather strip cut like a knife through butter as Macnair finally allowed the instrument to fall correctly slicing open its jugular vein.

"…once it's dead," Macnair finished.

Snape nodded curtly at the other Death Eater who returned the motion his wand flicking out to clean up their mess.

"I've missed working with you, Snape," he offered, a pleased, sated expression on his thin face. He was paying Snape no mind, soaking up the high of the kill.

Snape did not deign to answer, but went calmly on his way, a similar emotion uncoiling deep in his mind. It was a rare thing for him to feel, but his stringent honor forgave it in himself this one time.

* * *

The ninth sub-level was devoid of all life, few ventured down here. Those who might usually inhabit this level, studying these mysteries, disliked descending past the maddening shrieks that echoed from the four upper levels. Snape soon reached the Hall of Prophesy and set about his true purpose in coming here.

He was still deeply pleased to know the vile creature was no longer drawing breath. It was a good cover, the man had obviously on past occasion offered some irritation to Macnair and it was not unusual for first order Death Eaters to make example of those who did not show them the proper respect. None would question that Macnair had destroyed the man, and with his nightmarish reputation no one would find it too odd he had added his special brand of suffering to the mix.

The only moral sticking point was in how he had spoken of Hermione, it was the persona, the mask he presented to the world. To the world he was Voldemort's most treasured weapon. He was an expert of his art, and his specialty was pain. It was accepted by all that he was above all baser evils, only indulging in his blood games, at the behest of the Dark Lord. The rumor that had grown up around him that the only thing that kept him from turning his wand on others was that none met his high standards that the Lord had to command he deign to practice upon lower creatures. And it was true. After the first kill he was clean at least of that sin. But like any addict it seemed he was destined to relapse… first Hermione, and now the dead man on the level above. Surely by now he knew just what came of executing his personal agenda. Who was he to determine who was deserving?

But then…

Who else would dare to do what was necessary?

No matter how gory.

No matter how inglorious.

No matter how evil.

Hermione.

God… Hermione…

His flimsy rationalization shattered with her name.

He was like nothing so much as a child pulling the wings off butterflies.

Although he had only given voice to what the world this persona lived in expected, it had sounded so wrong on his lips. So bitter, vile lies, yet at the same time he was completely unmoved offering forth the lie that tasted like truth. It was times like these he wondered if it was worth survival if this was what he had become. In his conformance with these demons he had long ago become one. The only times he ever felt he returned to the self he would have liked to have been was when he was working with his potions… or recently when he was with the girl, with Hermione. He felt almost human then, almost… a normal man, with the normal faults and failings, perhaps more of those than most, but not the colossal, apocalyptic sins with which his hand had heralded the reign of a mad man, and at his hand perpetuated it. He well knew he was a small, but substantial part of the fear that echoed when men whispered the name of the Dark Lord.

When resistors spoke in hushed tones of the ever present danger of capture and the horror that lay beyond, they spoke not of the Dark Lord. Voldemort was above tormenting such weaklings. Now that his greatest foes lay dead, Dumbledore, McGonagall, Moody, Lupin, Tonks, Shacklebolt, even Potter, the Dark Lord rarely indulged. There was no power to be gained in killing the poor wizards that made up the resistance now. No residual pulse of magic that the Dark Lord could absorb like a great thunderhead full with the power he had collected and absorbed from a hundred great wizards. When he had first fulfilled his vow, killed Dumbledore, Snape had been quite sure he would die at the hands of his other master. It was the only logical course of action for the power hungry despot to take, how else would he subsume any residual of the power Snape had gained when his most powerful adversary fell. Snape suspected if the Golden Trio had not been destroyed so quickly after the fall of their great protector, he would have been. It was a rather sick cosmic irony that he owed his survival to the deaths of Potter and Weasley only two months after Dumbledore.

Rather sick… like he was now… like the world was now… too much in the world was sick.

It was not well to spend long on this level, strange things came into ones head, strange truths that in normal places one was blessed enough not to acknowledge.

His footfalls echoed too loud down the long empty aisles between shelves at least four man heights high disappearing into the gloom above. Floating, blue flamed, tapers lit his way sporadically, at the moment he walked in the cool shadows between two, and studied the seemingly infinite supply of orbs. It was said that if a prophesy concerned someone, they would find their way to it, or it would find its way to them. No one, man or beast, could avoid their fate. So he walked the long aisles, passed a hundred thousand orbs, grey mist, meaningless to him, holding only the promise of madness.

Nothing leapt out at him, no light lit the impenetrable misted gloom, no great insight revealed itself. It occurred to him the prophesy might rest on her shoulders and not his. That only her hand would draw the orb and that this whole excursion had done naught, but drawn ill attention to him.

No, not useless, the beast was dead. Dead and this pleased him, the creature had been a sick, pathetic creature, a cruel thing that had reveled in sullying creatures better, stronger, more noble than he, reveled in trying to stain the light and power in them as if this might draw some of their unbreakable spirit into him. But he had failed and Snape had relished lording this fact over his wretched writhing form, grinding his face into the dirt to prove he was a thing lower and less powerful than the witches and wizards he had played keeper to. They at least were above an uncaring death at his hands.

It was the only dignity he could give the unfortunates who came under his hand, he would remember them, their faces, and names, endless names, and he would treat their bodies with what care could be given. He had no need for humiliation and shame in its many varied forms, no mind could endure the sustained pain he had grown so skilled in inflicting.

Without conscious order his body had ceased its even pace and he stood facing a wall of orbs. His hand reached out hovering, indecisive, over a dozen or so orbs about half the size of his palm. Were he to close one in his hand, it might bring knowledge… or madness. Was it to the left? Or the right? Or none at all?

Slowly, he shook his head these were not his, but his was close. A levitation spell brought him level with the second shelf and the third and then the fourth and fifth high. Reaching out his hand closed hesitantly over one unremarkable smoothly, glass orb. Dust lay over it thickly. One breath, two, no madness seized his limbs, no visions danced before his eyes. The thing was utterly inert in his hand, only a faint flickering light issued from within, and that might be a trick of the eyes. It's ancient…clay? tag was inscribed, The Lioness and The Serpent. ~Emrya of Aether ~

So a prophesy of the ancients, of the great Seers of the past. And the tag… to have inscribed in clay rather than parchment…ancient indeed. He studied the lettering… it was newer scratched into already fire hardened clay. Flipping the tag in his hand he looked at the cryptic script that had been impressed with care by a stylus sometime in the grey past. _Beith-luis-nin, _he vaguely recognized the early Celtic script that druidic wizards had favored for rune spells until as late as the seventh century. He twisted it in his hand staring into the murky depths, such an ancient prophesy… obviously it was his, else he would not have been able to lift it, but was it hers? Other lionesses had come into his life, Lily… his dear Lils… and he supposed, Minerva, until the final act of betrayal a great ally, even a friend, she was a fearsome lioness, but they were dead, and she lived, if his partner in the destiny were dead the orb would be dark. This one still glowed faintly with light. But this was a question for the extensively warded privacy of his own home.

Silently he pocketed his find. He had spent too long down here already, especially if the Dark Lord chose to ask after him. It was likely after his little display… Macnair was a bit of a braggart.

* * *

He almost made a clean escape.

Then the mark on his arm pulsed once, and he knew it had been wise for him to step into the room of thought, he would need a cover story.

Turning on heel he strode quickly to the Dark Lord's side, it was not the burn of a full assembly, it was the private calling, he alone, and one did not keep the lord waiting. When he entered the Dark Lord was alone, and he made a shallow bow in greeting before lifting his head and meeting the Voldemort's red gaze. He was amused… Snape smothered apprehension.

"I hear tell you have grown fond of the female," Voldemort hissed.

Snape allowed boredom to color his tone. It would not due at this juncture for her to be taken from him. Her mind was unprotected now. She was vulnerable, and he with her. though he did not doubt she would push forward images of his torture, and the pain he had put her through, if even an instant of his kindness showed, both of them would meet their ends, "She is an interesting distraction. I enjoy her…"

He let visions of her writhing in pain on his lab table flash before mind's eye and saw Voldemort smile, appreciative of his work. He showed a flash of her crumpling to the floor before him as he pressed to enter her mind, spliced this with her tears and choked screams as he violated her mind and awakened dark memories.

The Dark Lord laughed lowly, a sound that had caused lesser men to cower on their faces; Severus simply pushed an image of her face twisted with unbearable pain out beyond his shields.

"How you must hate the girl," Voldemort murmured, studying the girl's face, beautiful even in terrible agony.

Snape blinked slowly, "Not at all, my lord, she is a lovely creature, so strong. She is a wonderful challenge."

His lord nodded thoughtfully, "She was Bellatrix's… but Lestrange continues to irritate me. If you like her you may have her… I do not believe you have taken a blood marked, do you desire this one? The most powerful of the blood tainted, it is fitting that she should go to my most powerful follower."

Snape inclined his head slightly, it would do great harm to appear too eager, "You honor me with this gift, my lord. I will be sure to…use her power well."

"See that you do," was all the lord said.

Doubtless he saw only the potential for dark magic to be molded from the power of her blood. The dark lord was no fool, and recognized power wherever it lay. Even in the most hateful of his subjects he found use, and he appreciated the irony of Snape's dark magic being fueled by what remained of the power of the golden trio.

* * *

R&R

Thanks to my reviewers, any feedback at all is a massive motivator. I hope this chapters offer some insight to the darker side of Snape. And also Voldemort… I enjoyed writing him, more than I thought I would…


	13. Chapter 13 - The Devil I Play

Ch 13

The Devil I Play

He found Hermione in his library. She looked to have settled permanently into the russet seat at the end of the third and fourth shelves. She was barricaded into her chair by a wall of books.

Looking up when he entered she gave a small nod, "I found a few of the books he recommended. I thought I might refresh my memory."

He cast his eyes over the perhaps thirty texts, "This is a few?"

She gave a small smile, "Ron said something similar once. I had not thought I would hear such from you. Don't you read?"

"Rarely in such large volumes," he responded, scrutinizing the small woman as she unfolded herself from her perch.

She looked expectantly at him, "So you have returned, and by your silence, your search was not fruitless."

He inclined his head, "Yes, but my excursion did not pass unnoticed. The Dark Lord has remembered you."

Her face grew pale and still. Carefully, she rose to her feet wanting to meet this fate as an equal, as a fighter and not a broken, frightened woman, "How much time have I then to make my choice?"

"None, the Dark Lord has taken your choice from you."

She closed her eyes and when they opened they were hard as parched desert soil, unyielding and seemingly devoid of light, "Speak then, do not keep it from me, it is no misplaced kindness on your part. What is my fate?"

"You are a muggle-born and the Dark Lord has decreed you be placed with a family of clean blood. He has chosen the Prince family," Snape explained slowly.

He watched fury grow in her eyes, like the killing arid sun, leaching life from heaps of bones that were once men, "You will cease your word games. You are no longer in the front lines. Here your words damn no one but me. So you will speak, and tell me whom I will call master. Tell me whom will I serve."

Snape mentally paused. The girl spoke truth, he had fallen too deeply into the persona. He had warded his mind too firmly. He was being very cruel to the woman, causing terrible fear and uncertainty, sowing the seeds of doubt and terror, subconsciously, unintentionally, manipulating her. He was Voldemort's torturer.

"The Lord has gifted you to me to spite Bellatrix. You are safe for a while longer… The Dark Lord was in my mind… I am…"

"More of a bastard than usual," she finished the rage fading from tired eyes.

He inclined his head, "Unless it becomes necessary to take you from my home, I will not bind you. However it would be wise to set an illusion in place, in the case of an unwanted interloper."

He reached out to her, but the girl backed away, "I will do it."

"Will it drain you?"

"Yes," she responded blandly.

"Then let me…"

She shook her head.

"Hermione, I will not trick you into a binding. You may trust me that far at the least."

She studied him and when he stepped closer, stood still, allowing him to pass his hand over her throat feeling the crackle of a foreign magic settle on her skin and coalesce into a point between her collarbones. Nothing further occurred and she nodded her thanks her bright amber eyes studying his face. She watched him with the intensity of purifying flame and divined more than he liked.

"There is something else… but you will not tell me of it. I wonder why?"

He met her eyes and she saw the ghost of bloodlust lurking there, and studied it unafraid. She was accustomed to such things. Survivors were not clean or pure, they might be victims, but never lambs. She too had blood demons lurking in her heart of hearts. They waited patiently for the life's blood of a select few. She was glad to see someone's had been sated.

Her easy acceptance of the demon lurking in him, irked him and he looked away, disliking the dissecting air she held, "Because, like you, I do not like the darker parts of myself revealed."

She dropped her eyes, ceasing her open analysis, "Was there a prophesy?" she asked instead.

"Yes, for the Lioness and the Serpent."

Hermione blinked, "That's unusual, prophesies are usually, labeled more explicitly."

He produced the orb from his robes and dropped it into her hand, very careful that it did not rest against both of their palms at the same time, "It is mine, that much we know,"

The orb consumed her attention and she nodded, "Yes, yes, else you would be stark raving mad now…hmm… what is this? Is it cuneiform? No… too linear…"

"It's Ogham, early Druidic writing," he supplied.

"Hmm… how rare, a prophesy out of its time. No wonder it is so vague a reference… it was centuries before our birth," she looked up suddenly, "How do we know it's me? I mean… other than Dumbledore… it could be any female Gryffindor."

"We won't until we try to view the prophesy… but you are the logical choice as it is in you Dumbledore planted his hints."

"It's strange… strange that he knew it was me… how could he possibly know? How could anyone possibly be aware of all of the ancient prophesies unfulfilled just sitting in that chamber and know its subjects had been born?" Hermione wondered aloud.

Snape watched the girl pace, somewhat agitated now that the true proof of Dumbledore's plotting lay in her hands, "Dumbledore knew many things… he was the greatest wizard of the age. He studied the mysteries of power for over a century."

"How is it viewed? Is there a way to listen without shattering it?" she asked.

"If two subjects of the prophesy, or the seer and a subject touch the record without coercion with the desire to view the contents it will reveal itself," Snape supplied.

They were now both standing before the cold grate in the library. Slowly, Hermione extended her hand palm up, cradling the prophesy record. Locking eyes with her Snape lowered his hand over hers their fingers interlocking around the orb, it felt cool, but Hermione's fingers were even cooler. After a breath or two Snape realized his hand had adhered to the orb, and as the glass grew icy beneath his skin, he could not have released it if he wanted to.

Then mist from the orb seemed to filter through their joined hands solidifying into the form of an ancient seer, a woman, who pushed back a hood, marked with the traditional druidic trim and began to speak. Her sonorous voice invaded their ears, sibilant and slow.

…

One fate, traitorous serpent, lioness caged.

Two alone endure, all fall the mighty

Damned, Degraded, Defiled

Betrayer, Baleful, Bane

Thrice converge, death meet, or turn aside, reluctance revoked

Coerced, Conjoined, Conjugal,

Lambent lioness, shadowed serpent,

Keeper and Kept become Lover and Beloved

Her fertile form, fed by his power, will give rise to the illustrious dead.

…

As the last word faded both ripped their hands, finally freed, from the glacial surface of the prophesy record. Only Snape had the presence of mind left to grab the orb before it shattered on the floor. Blood draining rapidly from her face she clutched her hand to her chest, it stung where his fingers had brushed hers. She backed up quickly, almost falling in her haste to get out of his reach. She might have fled the room had the armchair a few yards behind not caught her in the back of the knees sending her down into its confines with a silent gasp. Snape's face was dark with rage. He turned away from her and stalked across the room. Reaching the grate he turned on heel his burning black eyes holding her in their thrall for an instant as he absorbed her every thought and action.

He saw her pale face turn almost translucent, dull fear ghosting behind blank eyes. With an inarticulate snarl he turned back to the grate his hands biting white knuckled into the mantel. The rage burning in his black eyes was enough to thaw his mask and expose the violent emotions holding him momentarily in their throws. She was frozen, unmoving and felt nothing but a growing sense of despair.

"That manipulative, doddering, old fool! He's dead and he won't stop. Christ! Tell a man to kill another. It's an honest sin, between men, between soldiers. It can be spoken to his face in the light of day." He exploded suddenly, his words harsh, cold, and falling, like sharpened spikes of ice onto her ears, assaulting her senses.

Through numb lips she mumbled, "We are all soldiers, only soldiers are left."

He whirled to face her, cold fury laying over him like a pall, "I. Will. Not. Rape. A. Woman."

His words reached her as if through a haze, and the accusation pulled a response from her she was not fully aware of uttering. She couldn't believe Dumbledore that kind, old, grandfatherly figure, would ask this of her.

"I am neither a student, nor a child any longer," she gave a hollow little laugh, "I guess… without that, I'm just another chess piece."

His hands curled into fists restrained violence lying on his frame like an electric current running taunt wires, "And your master has made his final move… be thankful you've just one. I always had two. I was the grey pawn on a black and white board. Funny, I was quite sure I was a black piece now…but it seems my chess masters are not finished with me," with that his unspeakable rage grew too great to endure and passed into a kind of icy indifference and he ceased glaring at the frightened little woman. He was beyond simple rage.

It was not her fault. She was the only victim in this. He was accustomed to being used. She looked a wan little ghost. Her eyes, usually warm amber, looked large and dark on her face, they seemed to swallow him. They were the color of quicksand bogs… appearing shallow and flat, dangerous for what lay hidden beneath.

She was scared. He could see it, all too plain on her pale features. Who was Dumbledore to tell her she had to give up more, had to suffer more, for the sake of anyone but herself? Who was he, already dead and free from pain to tell her it was her duty to bring a child borne of betrayal and pain into this mad world? Call him old world, call him a chauvinist, but he would _never_ view a woman as the equal of a man.

They could suffer more.

They were stronger than men for it, and she, she was one of the strongest of those soft creatures he had ever seen. He did not want to watch another Lily, strong enough to sacrifice herself for the fate of a world.

If possible she was growing more distraught.

He approached the woman carefully, not close enough to touch, but closer. He knew well, that in this state, she might lash out, would be well within her rights to do so, in fact. He knew her well enough now to be wary of such retaliation, "Hermione, I stand by my word, I will not…just because…"

She grimaced, her fingers clutching spasmodically at her arms, "What? You won't suddenly go mad and use me? You won't do what every Death Eater already expects? Don't you want to fuck a mudblood? But that's not likely. You would never lose control. You would just do what you have to do, because _that's what Snape does_, follows orders, a good little spy, a loyal Death Eater."

He recoiled from her accusation, from the wild desperation of her voice, from the certainty that rang in each word. It was ordained…Did she speak truth?

* * *

Read and Review.

Thanks for all the lovely reviews, and in response to some, here begins the plot. All the plot.


	14. Chapter 14 - Lie to Me

Ch 14

Lie to Me

"Such a good spy… You may say you don't enjoy it, but actions speak louder than words. You're just like them, a demon," she hissed bitterly.

"Hermione," he warned. She was not accusing him, not really, he knew that, intellectually, but the words angered him despite the knowledge… but he supposed, if he wanted to watch everything burn, she was entitled to a meltdown of her own. It wasn't like this madness hurt anything but his pride… she would be the one left bleeding. She would break.

But she heard only the threat in his voice, and bared her teeth in an animal response. She dared him to act on that threat, dared him to try. Her hands, clenched against the erratic tremors, and her eyes, wide, wide and sharp and scared. They promised she would do her damnedest to kill him first. He was shocked to realize he was not entirely sure she would not succeed.

For one heartbeat, two, he watched in morbid fascination as she gathered what power she could, one hand lifting, perfectly steady now, not, he knew, to shield herself, but to wound.

When he felt battle hardened reflexes making the twitch to bring his wand to hand, he cursed violently and backed down. It took effort to keep his hands open and lax at his side.

After a moment, then two, she lowered her gaze, her hand dropping, sure he was not an immediate threat.

Though the shock of the revealing seemed to be wearing off, her dark eyes looked wild. She pressed the heels of her palms over her eyes pressing hard, a strangled screech escaping her throat, "Why did I have to survive? There's no point!" she crumpled, bowing forward, her dull brown locks falling to conceal her face and tumble over her knees like the fading incandescence of tarnished copper, "It wouldn't even matter if you did," she ground out in a broken voice her next words hurting Snape more than they should have, "I'm broken. I can't nurture any life."

He instinctively recoiled. These were things a woman should discuss with another female. This was something she needed a warm, soft shoulder to cry on over. What did a man know of maternity, of what fertility meant to a woman? This was not something he wanted to contemplate.

At the same time he wanted to reach out and soothe her pain. He wanted to lift the wild fear and stress from her shoulders. The cup was too bitter for her to bear, but he wasn't sure that he was not the one forcing it to her lips.

But she was still speaking, "I suffered so much, because I thought…I thought there was some hope, "She shuddered once and screamed in accusation, "HE TOLD ME THERE WAS A CHANCE!" her voice cracked on the last and she croaked, "A lie, all of it is meaningless… utterly futile."

He began softly, carefully, aware he more than out of his depth. Clinically, he knew the ins and outs. He had brewed enough healing potions, assisted in enough healer's research. He knew the science of it.

Somehow the knowledge did not seem to be of any help, "Hermione… though it does not change the fact that there are some things I will not do for my masters, your body does not menstruate when you are in starvation mode. The blood and fluid loss would kill you."

With obvious reluctance she lifted herself from her lap meeting his eyes across the room.

Her low, dangerous voice matched the frenzied pain in her eyes, "Leave it. Please. Just… You know enough of my shame."

"You need tell me nothing of shame," he stated firmly, "Only facts."

The soothing effect of, '_This is only business'_, staunched pain as no pointless words of comfort ever could for two such as they. She straightened fully, the awful hysteria in her eyes fading.

He watched her tether herself to sanity in even, almost clinical words, "They were not systematically starving me until the end of what might have been a year. I was strong enough then to grasp at my magic when I went too long between meals. It happened…very early. It's normal I guess… I was...am young. In my prime, so to speak. Time was hard there… We all found out when I began to show. I suppose I must have been there three or four months, is that not the usual time? It's a wonder I hadn't miscarried on my own. Bellatrix was…kind enough to abort the fetus. She was not kind enough to use magical means. There was a lot of bleeding…too much. I don't think Bellatrix ever wanted to deal with the problem again."

He wondered if he should comfort her. Was it, as she said, a kindness that she had not had to birth the spawn of that beast? Did it matter to a woman how a life came to rest in her body? He had seen the strength of maternal instinct.

Lily

Lils…fiery hair and green, green eyes, closed, closed because of him.

Was it that strong? No, her dark eyes did not seem disturbed at all, simply hollow. The pain… no, the shame, of the memory was in letting him know. She was solemnly composed, pale, but erect and calm. A small part of him noted with passing satisfaction the tentative poise in the tilt of her head that dared him to pity her. That awful frailty was fading as she returned to a normal weight, her abdomen no longer caving in under her ribs. Then he saw her hands, small and pale they pressed over her stomach, like white poppies, death, mourning, the only funeral spray her child had been given.

He could almost see the slight roundness that was all Hermione knew of her child. A child who had gone to death, wished fare thee well, and remembered only by his mother's white hands and screams. The child born of blood and anguish unspeakable, had died in the same way he was conceived.

Approaching her, he crouched down, not at her level, below it. He lowered himself to one knee on the floor just to her right. She watched him with no more trepidation than when he had stood across the length of a room.

Reaching out he gently he placed his hand over her two, covering them to banish the chill from her slender fingers and the almost physical sensation of her stomach hard with a life within, "What will soothe you? I could say I am sorry, so terribly sorry, for your loss, but that does not change anything. It will mean nothing to you. I can remind you that this prophesy need mean nothing to us. You are safe here. You have been given into my care, and I will protect you... Or I can ask you a question."

Her fingers twitched spasmodically under his warm palm, but she was a Gryffindor, and so very strong "What question?"

"How did she force a miscarriage? There are certain draughts…"

The little blood that had returned to her cheeks drained away and she trembled, her hands tightening to fists beneath his hand.

"Hermione, I will not touch you. You are safe. No matter what you choose. You are safe. I have and perhaps will again cause you great pain, but I will never touch you against your will in that manner."

She swallowed hard and he was close enough to see the quick, fluttering throb of her blood racing in the artery at her pulse point, and fine lavender web of capillaries across her delicate eyelids.

"The old fashioned way, I suppose… she beat the abdominal region until the contractions…and then the bleeding began."

He nodded solemnly, "So nothing scraped or punctured the uterine walls?"

She shivered noticeably and he tightened his grip on her hands, "Yes," she choked out, "After, to make sure all fetal tissue was removed," she gave a bitter little laugh, "Heaven forbid I get child bed fever if the dying tissue festered," Her lips were quivering, her composure fleeing, "Y-you know…I-I was glad…when it was out of me. I wanted it dead…" she admitted self-loathing evident.

He gripped her small fists lifting and cupping them in his large palms, "There is no shame in not wanting to bring a child into that existence."

Hermione was shaking her head slowly, "Not that kind of relief. I was glad it was DEAD. It was some monstrous, vile thing infecting my body. It was his and it only wanted to cause me pain," She choked on a sob, preventing it from being voiced, "It—was already a child. Not j-just some clump of cells, it was a baby… you-you could already see the face…and hands. God forgive me, it was MY baby."

"Shhh," he found himself petting and stroking her face and hair. Desperate to calm her, anything, anything, to stopper the wound pouring scarlet all over the floor, "Your first thought was, 'I can't have a baby here.' The rest is only a coping mechanism. You couldn't have stopped her. You know that. You know you could not have stopped her. Lestrange is the only one responsible, for any of it."

"You didn't see that," she accused in a low voice, "I hated that…foreign thing. I was so, so relieved when she killed it."

"No, I did not witness that particular thought, but I did not have to. I know you, how you think. I'm not wrong and, if you desire, I can heal the damage."

She pulled her hands from his slowly, her eyes dark, revealing nothing, "You want to fix me,"

The words were not spoken in relief. They were an accusation no matter how soft.

He considered telling her the lie she wanted to hear, no, I am indifferent to your choice. Dark eyes judged him and he knew her elders had lied to her for too long.

"Yes."

She recoiled further her knees drawing up into that familiar warding off position. Her still features revealed distrust, hard to see, hiding behind shuttered, muddied eyes, but there and strong. It was the first time he had ever seen such an expression directed at him from her pale features before. It was not just uncertainty, it was a deeply seated doubt in his intent. It was a quickly solidifying belief that he, like many before him, was using her. But more than that, he was using her and cloaking his manipulation in kind words and gentleness, hiding his evil behind a veneer that was beginning to crack. He saw suddenly that pain could be forgiven; cruelty could be forgiven; and she would willingly absolve him of outright malice and torture for those things were straightforward. She had had enough of manipulation and lies. She had had enough of being used. Quickly, he spoke trying to make her look at him, trying to make her stop closing herself in and away from a world that only ever brought her pain.

Even as he did it he knew it was unjust of him. The world was pain, awful, unbearable pain that smiled its cruel triumph over her heart, which could still be brought to trust despite her sure knowledge that no one could be depended on for anything, but brutality.

"I want to give wholeness of body back to you, if wholeness of spirit has been taken. I want to give you this for the same reason I want to see you walk and run with ease, your bones cushioned with appropriate amounts of flesh, your cheeks no longer hollowed, because, perhaps one day, if you can survive, you will live."

"Why?" she croaked in a thick voice.

'_I want to help you. I want to see the bright, innocent girl I knew. I want to know what kind of woman she would have become. I want to be reminded of a time when I was a better man. I want to be able to believe something of that man still lives,' _he did not say these things. These things were foolishness, the thoughts of one who had not seen war, who did not know reality.

"Too often I am the destroyer… I only want to repair some small damage. You may say it is wholly selfish, but I used to nurture young minds. It is true, I did not love my work, but… it was a time of peace. Let me remember. Let yourself."

The girl smiled bitterly and almost involuntarily said, "Peace is that brief, glorious moment in history when everybody stands around reloading."

He gave a hoarse bark of laughter, "Whoever said that didn't know the half of it."

"A muggle, Thomas Jefferson, muggles have it easy," she muttered.

The girl bit her lip and pierced his skull with her eyes, saw through the blind of fear that her suspicion was misplaced. Then, almost ashamed of her accusation she dropped her eyes, "What if I want to be a coward? What if I want to stay broken?"

'_So you can't hurt me. So I never have to lie beneath a man ever again. So I don't have to hurt for the dead that lie in peace while I suffer. I don't want to lose this momentary haven. I don't want to be thrown back into the madness and pain.'_

"What if I want to be selfish?" she whispered.

"You'd be in good company," he told her simply.

She rubbed her face, defeat evident in her exhaustion, "I feel like he's created the perfect game. The moves are as good as predetermined. I feel like nothing I have chosen, choose now, or will choose sometime in the future will have any effect upon the outcome."

"Our benevolent dictator…"

"Tell me it's for a good reason. Tell me it would be worth it."

He looked at her in silence.

She smiled weakly, and reached out with a shaky hand. He looked at the wavering appendage, and then looked at her face. Her eyes were very wide, and she bit her lip in uncertainty, stress and fear made her features look tight. Lightly, he pressed his palm to hers, and then wrapped her cold hand in his warm, firm grip. He didn't say a word and her dark tumultuous eyes were unreadable even to him. So they were joined by fate. Yet, if he had ever entertained any illusions of free will, she, through his choice, through his honor, would be given as much a voice as he in determining their path, however futile it might be to resist their fate. In a way, she was asking not to have to face this alone, but also it was a silent agreement. We are partners in this, they silently vowed. From now on I will be equally damned or saved by your actions.

"Do I have the right to throw away the future of the world, because I'm afraid?" She asked.

They both knew what the Gryffindor answer was, what the 'right' answer was, what the LIGHT would want her to do.

What was their answer?

Severus could see these terrible truths falling on her frail shoulders, like stones dropped by the callous hands of a farseeing general. He was too high. He did not have to see the damage wreaked by his actions. He could be indifferent because he only saw pawns on the board, not the shivering woman he had cornered with three fates of destruction, and no path of retreat save death left to her.

But no, he and not Dumbledore had taken death from her, blocked her final escape. He had drawn first blood… or was it last?

She was faltering beneath the cruel rain. Using their joined hands as a guide he drew her up from her chair. He pulled her to him, chest to chest. He was more careful now, aware of the fine distinction between a safe house and a prison. She did not resist, trusted as she did, because she believed in the honor Dumbledore was asking him to forsake once more. For an instant, she held an inch of space between them. She stood tall, even the tilt of her chin proud and looked up at him, eyes dark. Her eyes searched his face, and must have seen that he had never before acted against the will of their general. The terrible weight of that knowledge pressed heavily on her and when she staggered beneath the load she allowed him to support her. She allowed a warm arm to press her lower back and her head to find rest against his shoulder. She let him tuck her protectively beneath his chin as he moved to the seat with her curled in his lap. He lightly lay larger, stronger arms around her shoulders to shield her from the harsh blows, hiding her frail, trembling body from the cruel truth.

"Why won't you tell me it is what I must do?" She sounded small and lost and scared.

"Say it!" The demand, that was a plea, and an order sounded like the snapping of a bird's hollow-boned wings.

Firmly he covered her mouth with his hand. He felt her soft lips tremble, form words, then stop, the small, warm, sobbing gasp against his palm. Then she pulled her face away and pressed it to his shoulder saying no more.

She was still too weakened to be asked to consider such things, not yet healed enough to face such pain alone. _'Worry about the truth in the morning,'_ his touch communicated, _'Face that pain only when the light of day is there to penetrate the dark tunnel of fear. Not here, not now, just rest in the safe shadow I cast, only one of us need acknowledge the truth. For tonight, I will shoulder the burden.'_

* * *

R&R


	15. Chapter 15 - Reasonable

Ch 15

Reasonable

Morning dawned with a brightness that seemed to mock her, and Hermione kept her lids sealed against the hopeful golden light.

But the time for cowardice was past. It was not in her nature to shirk reality for long. Her eyelids were poor protection from the horrors that came for her.

Opening her eyes she saw Snape had not thought it wise to leave her alone. Probably once more convinced she was concealing suicidal tendencies. He was rather irritatingly perceptive. She was in his bed, but alone now, and that was good, where it had held no fear for her before, now the word conjugal rang like a claxon, assaulting her ears. She was glad his edge of the bed was rumpled, but no longer warm. He had left with the light of day. Her lips twitched as if to smile, he was a good man. Though unconscious, and most probably a mortal danger to herself, she had been nestled into his bed, while he once more slept at the foot… there was courtesy in his bones… an old world kind of honor.

He had been kind to her last night. Allowing her to reject the truth… for a little while had saved her from the yawning maw of madness.

She could still feel the hysteria skirting the edges of her thoughts and hysteria waited madness just within reach, ready to grab her up if she took a closer look at the dark morass hovering, waiting…

But the crazy was always waiting to snap her up… today was not all that different from every other before it.

And

It was time to face the music.

Rising she shrugged on a black collared shirt, shrunk down to her size, and wondered vaguely how much of his wardrobe he was giving up to keep her clothed. As she closed the row of buttons, she ran a careful finger over the black thumbprint set at the base of her neck. So this is what it would look like to know her body belonged to another. Then she closed the final three buttons till cotton was snug up around her throat, and stopped thinking about it.

* * *

Severus was eventually located once more in his lab, but only after she had made herself presentable, eaten, and felt almost human enough to face the day. Approaching she perched on the table and waited to be acknowledged.

After a moment black eyes met hers, assessing. She took a deep breath, "Let's look at it again… it can't hurt to dissect the thing rationally."

He nodded and from a pocket produced the innocuous, pearly gray orb. She stared hard at the hateful thing and extended her hand. He lowered it into her palm their fingers closing together over the globe. Again, the strange, ancient seer appeared, a small ghostly figure dressed in the robes of her order, above their cupped hands as ice seeped into their palms. The soft words struck her victims like blows, causing harm where hope was intended.

Only by the time the seer began her second rendition had Severus regained himself enough to summon a parchment and quill to mark down her words.

…

One fate, traitorous serpent, lioness caged.

Two alone endure, all fall the mighty

Damned, Degraded, Defiled

Betrayer, Baleful, Bane

Thrice converge, death meet, or turn aside reluctance revoked

Coerced, Conjoined, Conjugal,

Lambent lioness, shadowed serpent

Keeper and Kept become Lover and Beloved

Her fertile form, fed by his power, will give rise to the lustrous dead.

…

"I am the Lioness Caged," Hermione began.

Snape sneered slightly, "And I the Traitorous Serpent. Gryffindor and Slytherin, not spectacularly vague, surprisingly direct, for a seer."

"So, a generic beginning, two fates entwined, and more ominous blather," Hermione concluded.

"Then she speaks of what is the past to us. We are the last…of what? There are still resistors alive…"

"Of the Order perhaps?" she hazarded.

He nodded, it made sense. Briefly he wrote out their observations. When dealing with something of this nature he did not trust even himself to remain rational. It was best to make the thoughts concrete before they spiraled down into the muddle of rage and guilt. Rage at Dumbledore in particular and a world in general that was so depraved as to ask this of them.

Guilt, because somehow he was at fault for this, perhaps he had failed in some way, making this necessary, killing Dumbledore, living beyond the final battle at Hogwarts, so many good people fell there, Minerva, Lupin, Tonks, Kingsley, more students than he could easily name… the houses of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw had been devastated. Hermione, he knew, escaped. He hoped desperately she had at least destroyed the locket. Then at least some good would have come of the school's terrible loss. Or perhaps he was at fault for the reason she feared. It had been foreseen, would he…hurt her? a woman, a student, an ally… the fact of their survival had drawn them closer than allies, he cared for her, and yet he would sin in a way that lowered men to the depravity of beasts.

Her small voice dragged him away from dark musings, "I am the damned. I have been defiled."

Snape tightened his fingers squeezing hers around the still cold orb.

"I betrayed both sides, I am the bane."

"Three? Is it just poetic language?" Hermione asked.

"No, we knew each other before the war. I discovered you in the dungeons, and then I took you from there, three pivotal meetings."

"So the turning point of the prophesy is already past. You could have killed me then…and brought destruction? Who's reluctance?"

"Mine, in the beginning I simply meant to put you out of your pain," Snape admitted, as gently as one could possibly admit to actively plotting the death of another.

She took it in stride and picked up the thread, "The rest of the prophesy is still to happen."

Snape nodded absently, "Has not happened and may not happen," he corrected, "Do I coerce you?"

She flinched, her fingers slipping from the orb as she tried to evade his touch, but he held her in place gently.

"It need not mean forced."

She paled further, her voice a bare breath, staring hard at their joined hands, "Severus," she looked up into his face, a thing akin to pleading in her eyes, " You are not a soft man, but… you would not be rough?" there was a quiet desperation in her eyes that demanded he answer her.

It was not an accusation. She had not said cruel, she had that small measure of faith in him… misplaced perhaps, he could be very cruel… but he had never been cruel to a lover and he prayed he never would be. If she, through some measure of humanity he did not think he still possessed, could extend that trust to him, despite her past, despite the fact she did not know him as a man, he could give her the answers she sought. Because, although she knew him superficially, she did not know him as a male, only as the rather asexual thing that is a mentor to a student. There is familiarity there and lately there had been closeness, but it was of the brand between a ward and her protector. She was jaded and it showed in muddied eyes. She knew men could hurt her, even if they held no hate, save indifference. She knew how easily hard, strong hands could bruise, knew it was not difficult to harm her soft body. He could easily break her if he simply performed the necessary motions to complete the prophesy… it need only be another duty to fulfill.

With his free hand he reached out and stroked the pads of two fingers down the side of her face, feeling the heat of her vitality beating against his hand like a small, bruised bird. That's what she was, a small feathered creature, all heat, and light, and life, pinions bloodied from beating so desperately against the bars of her cage, her song reduced to whispers from crying too long. He wondered if his sheltering hand was a protection from the outer world or the thing which she had thrashed her red and gold plumage damply crimson upon. She was a caged and wounded lioness, a phoenix without its song. Careful fingers eased the haunted expression from her face and smoothed the feather fine wrinkles of distress from the corners of the eyes that were shadowed black with remembered pain.

"Any honorable man knows how to be gentle with a woman."

She was braver than he. She could name her fear. He could not say, _'I will not hurt you. Not in that way. It would destroy me if I were to defile something as strong, and brilliant, and brave as you. For reasons beyond my ken, you have come to matter to me more than any of the generic, faceless students I blacken my soul for everyday. To protect you, if you cannot survive this, if you cannot give yourself up to me, I would willfully damn the world.'_

She nodded solemnly accepting this paltry comfort. It was all he could offer her. He let his hand drop from her face. Her relief was clear to a discerning eye, long lashes gracing cheeks in a long blink, lips and cheeks losing tension, a look of almost repose, when his touch left her skin. He felt a thing akin to sorrow to know that it was his retreat that caused her such relief. Every moment he felt like nothing so much as the hand with which their unseen master pushed a bitter, bitter cup to her lips.

* * *

His touch on her skin, so light, just the barest tap of his fingertips, rationally it should not have caused her any trepidation. He was not harming her. He was not even threatening to do so. But her instincts honed by years with fear as a constant companion, knew what her conscious, rational mind ignored. It was a different breed of touch. It was not the safe, human comfort he had offered her before. It was a hint of what continuing to walk this path would lead her to. She did not need the reminder, she was well aware of what was coming. But she was surprised to realize Snape was…tender… it came as a shock to her system. She did not know yet if it was a pleasant or unpleasant one. It had been too long since her body had known tenderness.

It felt warm, and close, so close, smothering, almost choking… her body did not know whether to give into or fight the silken noose closing tight about her throat. This was not what it was supposed to feel like. She knew this. Knew too that he did not understand the cord he pulled was cutting off her air. He saw only the crude slave's collar and sought to release the knot. But it was not a bond of his own making, and he did not know how to release to tie, some days loosing and others drawing it snug with his meddling.

Was this what tenderness was?

Ron was affectionate always, her red-headed goof-ball of a friend. Harry, could sometimes be soft with her, those few times when he forgot she was a sister to him, forgot how horribly it would destroy their trio if he chose to see her as more than that. It did not matter that they both knew she saw Ron as her brother as much as Harry. However, her boys showed her a different breed still than the dark man before her… it was similar, but too innocent, it was untried, there was nothing innocent or pure about she and Severus… he a grown man, aged by war beyond his 40 some years, old enough almost to be her father. She no longer a child, simply a broken, bleeding creature of fear, so tired and sick and lost, so weak… they spoke not of what might culminate in a clumsy kiss in the snow after a butterbeer at The Three Broomsticks. They were circling warily around a wholly different encounter, one of pain, and if they were lucky, of mutual respect rather than fear and hate.

"Perhaps It is a self-fulfilling prophesy," Hermione broached, "We will fulfill it because we heard the prophesy, so we are both coerced by…Dumbledore I suppose."

They, by silent accord, skipped the last part of the line, continuing their cautious dance. Outright mention of the thing, might very well send her down the spiral of hysteria, and an ill spoke word from her might set off his quiet rage. The morning was peaceful yet, and neither dared break it.

Silence fell heavily.

The two damning words seemed to jump out of the page at them. Hermione approached them cautiously, they were just words. What harm could they really cause?

More than she liked to think about.

Her finger ran beneath the words, "Why both words? Because she used three in the other lines? They're synonymous."

"Not quite, conjoined holds no overt connotations save united… it could mean anything. We are already conjoined by our past, by the simple fact that we both fought for the light, a joining of wills. It could be a joining of power or mind, as we already have done."

Neither said, a physical joining, it already seemed to scream at them from the silent black lines.

"Conjugal implies marriage, why marriage?" Hermione queried, "Marriage implies some sanctity…and permanence…" the last was spoken with trepidation.

He was frowning. It was not a pleasant thought that she might become bound to him for more than the one necessary night. That seemed too cruel.

"A marriage of purpose?" He suggested softly, for they were both praying Dumbledore would not sentence them to a true marriage. He did not want to become the bars which bound her in her cage, nor the noose about her neck, and she rejected any institution that might require her to surrender herself to a male.

The both looked away from each other, then began the painful process again.

"Why am I called Lambent? I was caged, and then I became bright?"

"Could simply be a physical or emotional descriptor, a traditional yin and yang type of balance though in reverse," he suggested, he had never put much stock in prophesy, until one involved him…

They silently eyed the next line, 'Keeper and Kept become Lover and Beloved.'

Hermione's fingers trembled ever so slightly, "I will not be a kept wife… property…a play thing. Not again. Never again." she whispered, she did not need a new keeper... she had finally been wrested free from one, was she really expected to give herself directly to another?

"I think we must remember that this prophesy was made in a time when marriage was little more than an economic transaction. The husband was expected to protect and feed his wife and she in return was expected to obey him in all things… and bear children."

Her free hand splayed on the page fisted. She sucked in a deep breath between clenched teeth and slowly let it out through her nose. She forced her hand lax. It was much harder than usual to control her emotions. This rampant, desperate fear felt like acid clawing at her insides and it was so much more potent than pain. It did not want to be masked.

"How can I give rise to the dead? Their ideals? Does it mean that somehow by defeating the dark lord they will not have fallen in vain?" she finally said, working the words past the small hard lump in her throat.

"Are the lustrous dead anyone in particular?" Snape mused, in his mind's eye he saw a hundred bodies felled at his hand and the hands of others like him... it was a sobering image.

Hermione shrugged, then blinked, "Why the dead and I described as bright? There is nothing bright about me or the dead. That's some kind of connection."

Quietly they studied the static lines as if salvation might leap out of the page freeing them from this trap.

Hermione frowned her finger tapping the word lustrous, "They are not bright…" she muttered, "They died in darkness, in blood, they are only bright in my mind."

Snape's fingers tightened on hers, both noticing belatedly they still held the orb between them, "What?"

She shook her head, dismissively, waving her free hand absently at her temple, "I hallucinate…or dream, I suppose, sometimes the dead are in the light. But not really, that's just a coping mechanism."

"Have you always seen them so? I watched you hallucinate once. You saw the whole room fill with glowing light and heard their voices…" Snape trailed off remembering the small, dark cell and the voices of Minerva and Albus. He remembered her tragic desperation to ease their worry.

Hermione was staring quizzically at him, "Light? No it's a hallucination. I'm there, with them. It's different for each. The Weasleys are in the Burrow, Dumbledore is always in his study, and McGonagall is there or sometimes the Gryffindor common room. Harry stays in number 12 Grimmauld place with Sirius. I don't know where Luna and Neville are… but it's like a Muggle playground. The others are just voices in the darkness… they don't have worlds."

He looked troubled. His face betraying his thoughts, if it was not a hallucination…

"You knew I was mad," she reminded softly, "If I only saw their deaths I would not have been able to go on."

"If I was not seeing your hallucination what was the light? Are you casting an illusion on yourself? Is that possible?"

Hermione negated this theory, "I only see them when I sleep or when… when it's bad. I couldn't be casting any spells."

He analyzed her words. Minerva, Albus, Potter, Black, Longbottom, Lovegood and the Weasley family…why them in particular? Why were they different from other voices?

"Why those?"

Hermione shrugged, "They mattered to me."

"Why not your parents?" he questioned gently.

Hermione froze, pain bursting across her features before she internalized it, "They're there. Voices in the dark… I still don't know what became of them… they are safe, I took measures, but…perhaps that uncertainty prevents…"

Seeing her distress he retreated pursuing a less intrusive line of questioning. It did not make sense, a hallucination would not rely on facts… unless the fact her parents were not wizards effected… effected what? Her ability to visualize them? That was hogwash, there was some other, subconscious criteria for her… visions, for lack of a better term.

"Did you see all of them die?"

She shook her head, "No, only Sirius, McGonagall, Luna, and Neville," her brow furrowed, "Why did I see Dumbledore's death? I could not have unconsciously read your memory of it. I was not looking through your eyes."

Snape was staring blankly off into the distance, "I saw the Weasleys' deaths."

He meant both, the first a month before the final battle at Hogwarts, only one of the twins as well as the married son and his French wife had escaped the carnage, they fell in the battle, under a barrage of curses.

"And Potter."

Her voice was sharp with a taint of fear and it pulled him from his thoughts, "Are you telling me I'm not hallucinating?"

Snape turned dark troubled eyes on her, "I'm wondering if it is possible to bear that many pieces of other's memories…but if it's not all memory… then something is generating them in your mind and it is not your own magical working, nor a break with reality of some sort."

He released her hand pocketing the prophesy record. She was losing the confused look and seemed to be analyzing the problem, "I think…why would anything be there at all?"

Snape frowned darkly, "Dumbledore, if he thought you alone would survive… I wouldn't put it past him not to do something."

"Why me? You lived, it was far more likely that you of anyone would survive… I might have died a thousand times. Why safeguard anything in me?"

Snape shook his head, "Until we know the nature of what it is, I could not begin to hazard a guess."

He looked hard at her as if the answer might lie in her face or eyes, but she was looking inward analyzing her hallucinations with the sudden suspicion they might be more.

* * *

R&R


	16. Chapter 16 - Puzzle Peices

Ch 16

Puzzle Pieces

Hermione slid off the table immediately dropping about a foot in height as she found her feet, "Do you have _Bertrand's Book of Bindings_?"

He stared at her, the professor in him instantly coming to the fore, "That book is banned from the Hogwarts library."

She smiled mischievously, content to escape the danger that their intimacy spoke of into the role of an impersonal student, "Luna's mother was a researcher… while most of the family library was trash, a very small portion had several rare books."

He inclined his head slightly and entering his extensive library he quickly summoned the requisite book.

She was obviously familiar with it and sunk into one of the plush armchairs flipping rapidly through the volume.

Laying open a page somewhere in the second half of the rather thick volume she skimmed several paragraphs before lying the book on the table. Then she rose fetching several more common books on dream and memory magic he had loaned her during her first week here. These passages in these were more quickly found and laid on the table.

Her brow was furrowed in concentration and her eyes quick and sharp darting about her recourses making connections lying them out in a precise manner across the table. It obviously organized the material for her, but skimming over her shoulder he could glean nothing from the seemingly random pages the books were opened to.

One was a section on transfiguration and the difficulties involved in creating matter, another a brief, and severely censored explanation of blood magic, yet another a historical reference to the fertility magic of early Greek witches. Two more were related to the mind and discussed its layers while another theorized about how and where a witch or wizard's power might be stored in their corporeal form. It suggested that contrary to popular belief in a magical core on another plane, it was actually housed in the brain below the level of conscious access, thus explaining the phenomenon of underage wandless magic. Children were often more in tune with their subconscious urges than adults. He quickly read a page on how joint magic was stronger than a singular working and the minutia of those complex interactions. He noticed a thin book discussing the existence of a soul as compared to a consciousness.

By the time she had hunted through five or so texts and requested from him around four more she paused reviewing her materials quietly.

When she appeared to have come to her conclusion, Snape felt he was finally beginning to see how her mind worked. It was not, as many, himself included had suggested, merely skilled parroting of spells book learned and memorized. She was a truly gifted witch, quick, making connections, logical leaps, her brain working analytically to pull all relevant information while she put bits and pieces together to make the fit. As he watched she was shifting the placement of how each book was set on the table enabling her to see the whole of it in the most logical configuration.

He now understood how she had invented so many spells… spell craft was piecemeal, in part it was knowledge of Latin, which her exceptional memory had given her an edge in learning. Paired with her extensive knowledge of how magic had been used before and an ability to see beyond the book learning to its application to actual situations. Her incredible ability for single minded concentration and intent made her powerful… and that ability to block out all else but the task at hand had only increased since he had known her last. He found himself grateful she had never put her mind to crafting curses in her school days as he had.

"Care to enlighten me?" he drawled dark eyes flicking over the material, noting she had produced a handwritten addendum that looked a great deal like a Muggle's anatomical sketch of the brain along with explanatory notes.

He wondered vaguely how she had produced it so quickly, while he had been skimming her other sources. Then it occurred to him that he had probably been hovering here for two hours.

"Sorry," she murmured with a slight blush, not used to being scrutinized while she worked. Most people knew to leave her alone once she became immersed in a library, "I have a theory."

"When Dumbledore ceased communicating with Harry during our fifth year to protect him… he began showing more than a passing interest in me. Before that, I had just been a talented witch who would aid Harry Potter in achieving his destiny. But that year… I thought I had finally proved myself as more than the clever one of the trio, but I suppose that was when he discovered the prophesy. He gave me access to his private library, would occasionally leave notes with reading suggestions." As she spoke she was taking notes on small slips of parchment and placing them on the open pages of the books they corresponded to.

He reached out picking one up, it read, "Spin off of Cranther's theory? See Incantum Inviol vol VII"

"I thought he was trying to make up for our lack of a DADA teacher. Hoping I would pass on what I found to Harry. That was the reason I convinced Harry to start Dumbledore's Army. When Mr. Weasley was attacked I spent my winter holiday at Grimmauld place, both he and McGonagall were there a lot... I remember on one visit, McGonagall passed me an article on the dangers of silent magic… When I returned from the Christmas holidays the headmaster taught me how to shield my mind… he said it would make the casting of silent curses less volatile."

Snape frowned… that would be true… but only for a wandering mind, in someone lacking focus, a trait Hermione had never been short of.

"I was ecstatic. I mean, what does a fifth year really have in their head that they would need to conceal from someone like Dumbledore. It already seemed as though he could read my thoughts. Perhaps unwisely, I was unconcerned. Now that I consider it…he was doing more in my mind than penetrating my memories so that I could repel him… but he always came across as safe. It never occurred to me to ask why he was mucking about below my ability to consciously register his actions, he might have actually been in my subconscious. I realize now, that he was going deeper than he needed to in order to teach me occlumency… You can't access my subconscious, can you? I think the only other wizard who might accomplish the feat would be Voldemort. Though I shouldn't complain, because of his random intrusions into my mind, I learned to continually shield my deeper mental landscape no matter what I was doing."

She gave a weak smile, "That's why I was so unreasonably angry with Harry for not learning to keep Voldemort out of his mind… I mean I understand that you two had a pathological hatred of one another… but… I guess disciplining his mind had never been one of his strong points, just sudden bursts of unexpected power and bravery that verged on a distinct lack of self-preservation."

Snape watched her with unreadable eyes. It was one thing to know Dumbledore manipulated all the pawns on the board to his will. It was another to come to grips with the fact that he had taken advantage of a student's faith in him to set in place his machinations. To enter another's subconscious mind, was first of all highly dangerous to the subject. He had heard tell that those unfortunates whom Voldemort had learned the skill on had died, blood running from mouth, ears, and nose, as their brains, literally having over-pressurized, had burst their skulls. To access another's subconscious gave one access to their power and the base components of their nature, changes there could turn a psychopath into a kind matronly figure, or a pacifist into a calculating assassin. For that reason accessing the subconscious of another was a crime on par with the Imperious Curse.

"Have you any idea what he did?" he prompted.

She frowned slightly her eyes flying over the reams of text before her, "This is speculation…but based on some of the reading material he 'recommended'. I suspect it might have had more import than I assumed at the time," With this brief explanation she gestured to one of the texts and began, "The Wizarding World views the mind as layered, with surface thoughts to the fore with memories stored in more central portions of the brain."

He nodded his accord with this point and she pulled out the page on core theory, "Dumbledore suggested I read this. Basically, it states that our power core, or our… I guess, personal spring of ambient, wild magic, is replenished slowly from our surroundings. But like any natural spring if too much is pulled at one time it can run dry for a time. Different wizards are genetically more adept at pulling magic from their surroundings or storing it within themselves, but the ability can also be trained, and in extreme circumstances even a weak wizard or witch will suddenly manifest strong bursts of magic. The book postulates that our link into this well of magic is deep in our subconscious mind. If the theory that a wizard or witch's power is rooted in his or her subconscious mind is true, then modulations to my subconscious mind, or my power core, could in theory, leave spell impressions. So, without my knowing, I would continue powering and perpetuating the desired spell although the caster died. Even beffudlement brews would not prevent the spell from perpetuating itself. The potion only hampers the ability to concentrate."

"What imprints? To do what?" he interjected.

"I'm getting there," she placated, "It's not like I've had time to polish my presentation yet."

Grabbing the history text she briefly summarized ancient fertility rituals surrounding either Dionysus or Pirapus, his son, it was unclear. She explained their most important ritual during which the chosen sacrifice, the "icon of the fertility god", a being who it was believed was literally the god of fertility and worshiped on earth, would be ritually killed and his body ingested by male worshipers, and his high priestess. This took place at dawn of the winter solstice once every twenty years. That same night a ritual orgy would take place between the worshipers who had consumed the flesh of the divine figure and the high priestess. She speculated that through some forgotten and taboo magic as mentioned briefly in _Bertrand's Book of Bindings_, the child the women birthed the coming spring was actually the same man who had been sacrificed the previous winter. This child was then raised as the god of fertility and on the winter solstice before his twenty-first birthday sacrificed again.

Snape watched her critically for signs of unease, but it seemed while she was immersed in her impartial study he was the only one appalled at the insinuation of what was being asked of them. He did not give voice to this and listened as she continued.

"I think the reason for this literal rebirth, as a newborn, is because at that time the mechanics of creating matter was not so well understood as Mephaestus' Law delineates here, "she briefly pointed to an advanced transfiguration equation, "While it may have been the same man was born again every cycle I do not believe he retained his memories of past lives. It would be colossally pointless for us to produce a Harry or Dumbledore… Clone? Baby? Copy? that knew none of the magic, and had none of the life experiences that molded them into who they were. Besides that, I don't think either of us can be reasonably expected to survive the next twenty years to raise a child. It's simply not practical. However, Voldemort succeeded in being reborn in a fully formed body, his memory intact, so we know it can be done. I do not feel that is the path we should take. His use of blood magic, and the fact that his soul was still broken, sullied the form he came to possess. I don't even think we could try to revive them in that manner, they do not have horcruxes and…well… if Dumbledore intended us to simply chop off a few spare parts and begin bloodletting he wouldn't mention…" she fell into uneasy silence, apparently not so inured as she seemed, by her analytical reasoning, from the reality of what she was discussing.

Clearing her throat she finally began to explain just what she believed Dumbledore had done to her.

"Have you ever considered the exact difference between the soul and consciousness? I personally feel they may very well be synonymous, I believe the mind is eternal. It seems to me that's what a dementor takes from a person, their mind. What became dull for me, during my captivity, was my mind and my power… not my 'soul'. Voldemort himself seemed to be conscious of what happened to each portion of his 'soul' trapped in the horcruxes. In fact, that's how Harry died. It was so early in our seventh year… I should have known that carrying around a piece of Voldemort might as well have been a signal beacon," she shook off the crushing sense of failure and pushed doggedly forward.

"Given what the headmaster hinted at… I suspect I was always intended to figure it out… I think it's possible I have the consciousness of those people in my mind, somehow bound to my power core or my body. I think he used a dual working somehow binding the two of us… we were all magically tied by our oath to the Order… but without the dual working, it makes no sense that I don't have all of the order residing in my mind… but I did not see the other's die and neither did you. I think the combination of our oath and being witnesses to their deaths triggered the requisites for the spell. It makes more sense than a hallucination… they're too real…" she grimaced, "the hallucinations of my parents are not so real. They have remained flat… they never change. They tell me the same words of comfort that they told me when I was leaving on the Hogwarts express."

She fell silent and dropped her suddenly too bright amber eyes from his face studying the volumes spread in crazy quilt pattern out from her. She was waiting for his judgment, and watching her press white teeth to her full lower lip he saw she was hoping desperately to be wrong.

"As you suggest it is highly improbably that we have been asked to produce some new child savior… the Dark Lord would not allow such a thing to trick him again. Is it possible we have been charged with recreating bodies for these minds, through some combination of a transference spell and some sort of transfiguration powered by..." he paused an instant before gritting out, "a fertility ritual?" Her shoulder's sagged at this confirmation and he gave a hard bark of laughter that was a man's substitute for a cry of agony, before continuing in a bitter tone, "it fits so perfectly… it feels like one of Dumbledore's plots. A hundred seemingly disjointed and separate puzzle pieces fitting together."

"It gets better," she muttered pulling a thick text and the anatomical sketch of the brain to the top of the pile, "He chose me and not you to house the minds, in part, I think as a link to the fertility rituals, but also because of this. Alright, so wizards hold that the subconscious is housed in the center of the brain. Muggle studies and Muggle research into the brain agree with this hypothesis. They hold that conscious thought and cognitive reasoning occurs in the thin layer of grey matter that covers the surface of the brain. The deeper layers of the brain are white matter where the memory and subconscious are stored. However only about 10% of the brain is consciously utilized so there is a kind of space in the white matter of the mind. Research has shown that women have around 10 times more white matter then men. If we're talking in terms of the kind of physical space these other minds, even magically condensed, would require and as they are already intruding on my conscious mind, I can't think there was a lot of excess space. I am young, there is less in my mind simply in terms of memory, than in yours. He took the risk that you might kill me and end our chance, because your core would not have been able to hold their consciousnesses. At least not without overwriting your personality."

He scrutinized her sketch analyzing her words. It made a good deal of logical sense. "When did you learn Muggle anatomy?"

She flushed, "My parents were under the impression that I would complete my magical education and return to the Muggle world. They were deeply concerned that when I decided to leave the Wizarding community behind I wouldn't be able to function in the normal world. I wouldn't even have a high school diploma… so during my breaks I attended classes and brought self-study courses with me to school. Then during the summer I would take tests to get credit for my work. I graduated from the Muggle equivalent of seventh year in the summer after my fourth year. The time turner helped… I actually gained two extra years third year… not the one everyone always assumes. I'd been dabbling in a few interesting university level anatomy, chemistry, biology, history, and botany courses since. Nothing serious, my parents were satisfied once I had the high school diploma. They figured I was smart enough that I could jump straight into full time university and get my full degree whenever I was finished living half of a 'real' life with them. I couldn't bear to tell them I was never going back to their world… and it wasn't hard to make them happy by passing the tests."

Looked up from the sketch he scrutinized her face, it was carefully blank her head bowed over one of the tomes, but she wasn't really reading it. Her eyes were shuttered staring far beyond the book in her hands.

"That's how I hid the Neville and Luna for so long," she admitted in a low voice, "I was able to hide us in Muggle society. I got a job in a convenience store, and rented a little flat. I was a little young, but I had proof I'd graduated high school, so everyone assumed we were poor university students. No magic. It would have drawn Death Eaters."

"Then it was time well spent," he commented striding among his shelves pulling several books he felt might be relevant.

Settling into a chair ensconced between two large shelves at the end of the aisle he began to read giving her the partial privacy she needed to recoup her composure.

She was right. There had never been a choice. They could not willfully remain in ignorance of what they must do and knowing that it would be close to a sin for them to condemn the rest of the world over the lives of two. God Damn utilitarianism and self-sacrifice. Was it so wrong that he did not want to cause her any more pain? Was it such a terrible selfishness that he could not bear to see her eyes shutter against him and feel her body terror taunt against his frame? Was it self-indulgence that he did not want to debase his ill used honor by adding rape to the long, long list of his sins?

Why did ethical actions, the healing of a girl, the protection of her spirit, holding to morality in hell, become self-serving and base when placed in the balance of this twisted war?

Why was sin necessary to combat the greatest evil the world had ever seen? Why couldn't anything be uncontaminated? Good defeats evil through honor and right and light. Or Madness is defeated through the self-sacrifice of the willing, a clean self-sacrifice, the stuff of the bible and the cross, the stuff of myth and legend. Why must salvation come through the tears and blood of a broken woman and the sin of a blighted man?

When he was roused from under the piles of his own research it was to see the little lioness had found his hidey hole and was studying him quietly.

"Severus?" she inquired softly, drawing his eyes from a text on sources of magical power, and how to best tap into ambient magic. Swiftly, he marked his place setting the book aside, giving her his attention.

"Let this sit for awhile, I think we both need a meal."

He absently rolled the stiffness from his neck before coming to his feet.

"Give me a few days for some research of my own," he said.

And she nodded quietly, calm and pale. It was a good front, better than his. Carefully he reached out and squeezed her shoulder. He did not know if it was to reassure her or to reassure himself.

Her expression did not change, but she raised her hand and placed it over his fingers, a cool, light touch. She was a pure white dove, above the madness that lived around her, unruffled, but no, eyes were dark and knew of blood and pain and terror, but in that hell nobility, strength, and beauty had been fired to burnished gold. She was the phoenix, in the process of being reborn from the ashes, the lioness rampant, exhausted from the battle, but greater for having faced it.

She was golden perfection, unreal, surreal, but feathered red, bearing battle wounds, human and breakable and strong.

_Jesus wept_, he would destroy her.

* * *

R&R


	17. Chapter 17 - I Need a Villain

Ch 17

I Need a Villain

Hermione followed in his wake. Her face felt stiff, but she was very close to screaming so stiff was good. He had given her time, two days, two days they would research this, and then, only then would she have to face him and share what she knew. That was two days to process this, two days to try not to let the ocean of bitter tears and the strangled sobs that some small broken part of her was releasing in a dark corner of her mind out where he could see it.

She could not let him know how much this hurt, how the small part of her that wasn't numb was screaming and clawing bloody nails down her face and back, belly and arms. How desperately she wished Bellatrix had killed her and she had never known her fate. Had never had to look at a man who she had truly believed was SAFE and have that precious piece of sanity and instant's sense of wellbeing ripped from her and replaced by heartrending revulsion and feral fear that made her want to throw everything away. That made torture a welcome alternative, that pain, at least, was expected. She wanted to claw out her eyes and puncture her eardrums, she wanted to burn off her skin and be trapped in the dark quiet world of her mind, no sensation, nothing, but thought.

She didn't want to be the strong one anymore.

She'd thought, foolishly, that for once there was someone who could be strong for her. If there was anyone who had endured more, who had stood firmly in the heart of hell, better and with more composure than she had ever managed, it was Snape. He was blackened by it, dark with sin and pain and guilt, but hell had been his crucible, purifying even as it blackened and destroyed, honor remained, twisted perhaps, but she, warped by anguish recognized it. And she knew, knew despite his coldness, despite his cruelty and biting tongue that he cared. That he did what he did to keep children safe at least for a little while. She had wanted to release her iron grip, a moment, and let someone else make the hard decisions.

He was a great serpent, a dragon ebon-dark, his scales had seemed impenetrable, she had been sure… so sure…

But he was still human, and war was no place for humanity.

Dumbledore's purpose would be better served by the man who had coldly and calmly destroyed the one being who had truly believed he had goodness left in him. The fate of their small corner of the world would be better served by a man who could and would set aside thought, morality, and principles to follow orders, a good soldier. A man who could see her tears, hear her screams, and complete his duty.

She was partially at fault for this, she was sure. She had insinuated herself close to him, she had needed the reassurance that when she had to be ripped free and thrown back into the hell that Voldemort reigned he would remember her. It was unconscious she told herself. She had not meant to cause him more pain, but survival spoke more strongly than logic. The baser self that had been fostered by her time with Bellatrix being stripped of all higher brain function said to bind herself into his very soul and never let her haven go.

The man he was, before her, could have been the perfect soldier. The dragon who had killed Dumbledore and survived the final fall, would have been able to deflect her pain off fire-hardened scales, but she had insinuated herself beneath his skin, gotten inside the outer wall and he could not simply close his eyes to her pain.

She damned herself for having broken the unbreakable mask. Right now, she needed the man. She needed Severus. She needed someone who was still human enough to understand her pain. She needed the man who not only saw her agony but offered comfort in the only way he knew.

The wizarding world did not need a man. They needed the perfect soldier, the spy, the greatest serpent of Slytherin, the Dragon who could save them from death at the hands of a madman.

So she would be strong. She would not cry. She would not scream. She would not let him see the weak, ugly, selfishness inside.

She would smile emptily and eat although the food felt heavy and wrong in her stomach. She would keep up her health, because to not do so would draw him closer, so she ate, she slept, she exercised in the little ways she could. During the vast empty hours of the day when those tedious, but necessary life sustaining tasks were finished she read. She read and learned and devoured information. He showed her the spelled cabinet in the library that at a word could summon books from the Hogwarts library, and she made use of the resource.

She learned more than she had ever wanted to know about the highly ritualized procedures of fertility rites, studied many texts on the mind and ambient magic. She discovered that the most effective method to tap and transfer magical energy was through blood sacrifice, and its mirror opposite…sex. Their 'marriage' was not to impregnate her but to allow them access to the sheer power they would need.

She did not go out of her way to avoid him, but the both of them being private, quiet people, it was not hard to find the solitude she sought.

She always willed herself to sleep in whatever library alcove she had secreted herself within and invariably she woke nested in his bed, alone, always alone, but with the sure, unavoidable proof she had not been alone all night.

On the evening of the third day he finally broke her self-imposed solitude.

* * *

Backing off to give her space seemed to be backfiring on the both of them. Hermione grew more wan and quiet by the hour, she moved about like a waif. She did not meet his eyes or even notice his watching. She was utterly composed, but also… completely exposed. He knew masks. He could almost hear her screaming on the inside.

It was driving him insane. It was his own fault he supposed, if he had not entered her mind, if he did not know her inside and out, her effort to spare him would have been successful. It hurt to watch her try so hard to achieve normalcy, to accept this madness. She was struggling against an icy flood of fear, a deadly torrent, the spring flood. With every passing moment the waters of terror swelled as more melted into the wash, corroding the landscapes of her mind, eating away at her mental stability. She was losing the fight to keep her head above the water. Soon the swirling, chaotic, muddied waters would take her under and she would lose herself to the past dark assaulting her mind and the present decree threatening her fragile existence.

He had finally had enough. It would be better if she were screaming he decided, better than this stiffness.

"Hermione?" he murmured recalling her from the book induced isolation.

She was looking downright green and he doubted continued contemplation of the text gracing her lap would improve her color.

She lifted her head slowly, schooling her features carefully, her honeyed eyes looking flat and dull, "Severus?"

"You have made your decision," it was not a question.

She inclined her head slightly, "I have."

"I will abide by your choice no matter what it is," he assured.

It was the wrong thing to say. Her eyes seemed to harden and she shrank infinitesimally back from him, aloud she said, "I know."

Internally she said, _'That's what scares me so much.'_

Her choice was made, and she struggled not to accept the clean retreat he offered her. It was no trick, she would pay him no toll. This one thing was without a price. His black eyes, looked soft and deep, warm like charcoal ash, not the icy devourers she was accustomed to. They spoke of unbreakable control. She would always be able to tell him no in this. Always until the end. She wished she did not have the option. It had been a kind of little death making this choice. To be forced to choose the Light again and again, to have to consciously decide to destroy herself every time she looked into his face...

Did he not realize how hard it was to keep making the right choice? It was so tempting to simply damn the world. He made it too easy.

"Will you tell me what you have found?"

"You first."

Settling into the seat across from her he complied. In the slow cadence, her ears trained by years under his tutelage, readily recognized, he spoke of energy transference; of draughts that he could brew that would pour his power into her body. He told her of certain spells and potions that would remove the 'Others' from her mind and the need to provide those minds with housing. He told her, plainly without shirking, of the dangers and methods of blood and dark magic that had been used in this manner before. He told her of enemies brought back to life and bound to reanimated corpses. He told of souls captured from the newly dead and bound by old, forbidden necromancy to stone, iron, and clay, reanimated golems. He told her of forbidden magic, of using the newly dead consciousness of a child to bind a murder of ravens to the casters bidding.

Finally he finished and she produced her own research. She began with something neutral, spoke of ambient magic, and the varied ways of accessing it. She spoke of advantageous times, twilight, sunrise, moonrise, and midnight. She spoke of omens and signs and being aligned with nature. Only then did she finally explain the link to fertility rituals, of power transference and taping into the raw power in the world.

She did not look at him, rather studied the weave of the taupe fabric under her hand, short nails ran the grain back and forth, back and forth. They both watched her hands as she spoke.

"I studied fertility rituals from several cultures. The most information was to be found from early Greek, Egyptian, and Babylonian history. There was very little information in your archives on South American or African rituals."

Her nails were pressing harder making a distinct scritch scritch noise.

"I have been able to compile a profile of elements common to most rituals. Most involve imbibing or consuming some ritual food or drink meant to induce fertility, and purity. I would suggest some sort of potion. This action is then followed by an anointing… either to bind the participants or to purify them… The ritual is an act of dominance and submission, willing…or not. Most involve containing or channeling runes or spellbinds, for example, the cliché pentagram, can be used to channel the power called by the ritual into the participants. Because we intend to both absorb and transfer power, a rune circle may serve us better," she sucked a deep breath through lips pale and bloodless and plunged ahead.

"The action need not be consensual and in some cases, it was a stronger working if it was not, however as few are willing to rape women over a spell, bindings of various types became a part of the ritual. There is always the balance to consider between accessing your partner's power with her full permission, thus having two wills to bolster the intent of your spell, or as in blood magic using violence to power the working. "

She looked pale and slightly green. He did her the favor of closing those searing black eyes and simply listening, his forehead creased slightly hinting at subdued tension.

"I—" she struggled for a brief moment on the words, choking on them, "I—can't," she finally worked out past a throat that tried to strangle her voice.

Clenching her jaw she looked away from dark fathomless eyes that flicked open and studied her like a butterfly pinned to the collecting board. She struggled to beat down her irrational panic and finish speaking, but it seemed impossible. Lunging to her feet she headed past several shelves assured by the fact that he did not follow. Scooping up several books she headed back to her little reading alcove. Snape hadn't so much as twitched in her absence. He looked troubled, and had she the energy she might have laughed and told him he didn't know the half of it.

But she was tired, and scared, and the agony of acceptance was still too new to force humor like salt on open wounds.

Opening the volumes to the appropriate places she set them out in a logical order and left him to his reading. Since he had taken over her hideaway she gathered a few new books, these on transfiguration, and some parchment for calculations she decided to do something concrete.

…

Assuming the highest possible matter creation was around 70% and the average mass of the bodies they would need to provide was around 1134 kg of flesh then at the least 340 kg of matter would need to be provided. However taking into account magical influence on mass… and multiplicative spells…

She worked several derivatives and conversions. The magical calculations were soothing. Numbers always fit neatly into square boxes, there were no ethics or morals or fears to be considered.

Eventually, the numbers came out around 44 kg.

Now the question was what would make up that mass…

…

When her solitude was once more broken by the familiar black garbed figure she gestured simply at her parchment covered in small, neat calculations. He looked no paler than usual and she internally applauded his composure.

"I've worked our mass conversion and creation equations if you'd like to check my work."

He sat beside her at the table and did so, the both of them by silent agreement putting off the conversation they both dreaded for different reasons.

"The conversion to flesh will be costly," he murmured, "blood magic is much more efficient."

Hermione shook her head, "No, at least not fully, I fear the damage we could do to their consciousnesses using blood magic. Further… we'd need to bleed several adult male's dry for the appropriate amounts. I thought perhaps magical association, ochre clay has strong properties of life, purity, power and birth, so by linking it, perhaps to a drop or two of our blood, these consciousnesses, our…offspring will be drawn to our 'flesh'. In that way they could be children of our flesh without literally tying them into our blood and bodies, or corrupting them with the blood taint."

Snape considered this, the power required would be tremendous… but was that not the reason for the bloody fertility ritual? Damn… Christ… Hell Blooded Merlin… The dark side of the coin was downright barbaric. It was basically ritualized rape of a young woman, a brutalized victim. The intensity of her pain forced her magic to come to her defense, exposing it for her rapist to drain.

Following the only slightly less barbaric… slightly more modern rituals… he didn't know if she would be able to handle it. He didn't know if he could go through with it. It was nauseating to consider. It was… degrading, the woman trussed and tied, or drugged, as if she were nothing more than another spell component, the instrument through which to conduct his power.

He understood why she had fled to the safe, sane confines of transfiguration equations.

"Something more is needed…else you'll basically have golems tied to your will. Life and healing… phoenix tears, might…" he commented ripping free from his morbid contemplations.

She nodded, "a lock of hair from each of us… I think we might as well follow historical precedent and make clay figures…like you said if we fail we'll have golems, if we succeed we may have re-enacted Adam and Eve."

He groaned softly at this, "Please don't compare this madness to creation… It's an insult to Christianity."

"Ha, raised an Anglican," she murmured.

Snape almost smirked, offering a tidbit of personal information, "My mother raised me Catholic… it was rather odd, you don't find many wizards religiously inclined aside from muggle borns… or half bloods."

She looked away from him still, her face hardening as she considered the madness.

She jumped slightly when he caught her fingers in his, "I will not brutalize you."

She did not face him instead she bit her lower lip her eyes closing as her brow furrowed, "What if I cannot submit? What if that is what the spell demands?"

"I will not touch you without your consent."

"My consent and my ability to go through with this are two very different things. I cannot turn my back on our only chance… but… am I strong enough to do what is needful? I do not know," she turned dark conflicted eyes on him.

"Do not ask this of me."

She bowed her head forward concealing her face from his because for an instant the mask had slipped and feral, inhuman fear had gleamed from twisted features. Did he know what he asked of her? Warm fingers brushed her hair back from her face, lifting her chin. She screwed her eyes shut trying to hide the ugly fear inside.

His touch was light, barely there. She forced herself to relax, it was just like pain, she wanted to harden herself against it, but tension only made it worse.

* * *

Wow, sorry for the radio silence. Its finals week and my death is bearing down on my in the form of bluebooks. I hope this makes you as happy as it made me writing it. I have found writing an excellent stress outlet during this week.

Thank you to my reviewers. You are loves.


	18. Chapter 18 - Flip Side

Ch 18

Flip Side

He cradled her face in his hands, sweeping careful fingers over the planes of her face, smoothing the deep furrows from her forehead, and the clenched tension of her jaw. He skimmed his fingers over her fine dark brows and watched her eyes, screwed shut, relax as if in repose.

"Hermione, I'm not going to hit you. You look like you're waiting for it. I will not hurt you. You don't need to be afraid."

Her lips barely moved when she spoke, "I'm not fighting it, what more do you want?"

"I only want to comfort you. You were never afraid before."

She shook her head minutely, her brow furrowing slightly before he once more traced the elegant slope of her brow and she forced her expression to smooth, "It feels different. That scares me."

He drew her closer, using his hands cupping her face as a guide. She was compliant easing closer until her knees pressed his thigh. Then she stiffened, her hands blindly found purchase on his arms holding herself back, her breath short, shallow, and quick.

"Breathe… nothing bad will happen."

She was frozen for a moment longer before she conceded, loosening her hands from his forearms dropping them to her lap watching him from beneath lowered lashes. She could not have explained why she was letting him do this to her, why she did not fight back, except maybe to prove to herself that she could bear to be touched.

"It doesn't have to be different from comfort."

Her jaw clenched beneath his hands, negation, rejection.

"Not that far," he soothed, "an embrace, a kiss, nothing more."

"Why, until we have to, _why_?" her voice was soft and desperate and pleading.

He stroked her full lower lip with a thumb, "So you aren't so horrified and frightened and tormented when it happens that it is rape. So we can channel our power through you, so it's truly consensual and I'm not ripping your magic from you. "

She shivered at the mental image he painted. It was true. She might not fight him, but if her mind thought rape… magic only cared about intent.

Bending to her level he paused, a hair from her skin, his breath warm on her face. She was silent. It felt like a creeping frost was covering her lungs, freezing them, burning them, forcing the air out. Softly, he pressed his lips to her forehead, brushed his cheek, just barely rough with stubble, against hers his lips touching her high cheekbones. His lips skimmed the lavender lacework of veins beneath her eyelids and down the line of her nose. He was delicate, careful, gentle, nothing like the beasts that had hurt her, nothing that would remind her of those experiences.

She was soft and warm, but he knew it was an illusion. She was as beautiful and as peaceful as Michelangelo's Pieta, but like the mourning Mary she was still as stone, cold and unmoving… and on the inside she was sobbing over the broken body of all that was once pure and sacred. He stopped pushing her and held her close, gently, so gently, letting her cheek rest against his, their breath mingling, hers soft, shallow and silent, his deep and slow. She was very close, and warm, her skin unbelievably soft beneath his. Carefully he let her face fall from his hands. She did not move or struggle or cry, but neither did the granite beauty in his arms seem to realize she had been released.

* * *

He was so tender it hurt her heart. Another girl, a more innocent one, perhaps, would think it was love. But she knew it for what it was and blessed him for it. He would do anything to help her, anything to let her heal.

He was a good man, he might feel nothing for her, but he would not hurt her, nor treat her with the indifference or callousness that her previous tormentors had. It was a blessing. Others had come to her, men who treated her like a breathing sex toy, not a human, not even worth torturing. But they hurt her anyway.

He treated her like a lover, as if she were something precious and beautiful, something to be treasured. It was like she had said before, nothing bad had ever happened to her in a bed. She had never been touched so…tenderly.

But her body rebelled, memory knew what came from intimacy, and beneath the gentle brush of his warm lips she felt teeth nipping harshly at her jaw, beneath the touch of his almost reverent hands she felt fingers grasp her chin to bruise, felt dirty nails dig into her jaws. When he stopped, tears of relief almost flowed down her cheeks, but that would have given her away.

Finally daring to open her eyes she stared blankly forward. He seemed completely unmoved and did not look down at her, rather forward, and from her position she could only see his chest and Adam's apple.

"You stopped…" she murmured.

He shifted slightly, trying unsuccessfully to shrug off the sudden deluge of self-disgust, "I think we can both hear you screaming no. It might prove more effective to do so aloud."

She tilted her face up trying to understand the hard, almost accusing edge in his voice, "If I listened to what I was screaming on the inside… First I would be dead, then I would be crazy, and barring either of those I'd be a sobbing wreck," she took a deep breath, "Severus…kiss me."

He looked down meeting her eyes. She did not hide the pain and fear from him.

"That would hurt you."

"I want to know if I can control myself. I need to know… how bad it will be," she saw his reluctance and reached up resting cool fingers against his neck. It was as forward as she could bring herself to be.

He studied her for a moment. She was deadly serious. Gently, he touched her full, pink lips, she shuddered softly beneath calloused finger tips and then she forced herself to unclench her muscles, watching his every move through eyes wide and dark. He held her gaze, searching her face and eyes for some signal to stop.

* * *

His breath was warm, fanning her lips, the pressure light. Utterly chaste, gentle, like before it was nothing she was familiar with. For an instant she thought she was alright. Then unbidden, bile rose in her throat and fear slithered down her spine. She subdued her reactions, fighting the desire to react violently. He was so close, caging, suffocating…Through the ghost pain, she saw his eyes, dark and soft, black velvet, a kind of pain lurking in them for causing her fear.

Memory was stronger still than reality. It was clawing fingers pressing the muscle of her jaw forcing clenched teeth apart. It was lips split and raw from teeth and fists. It was tongue bleeding and teeth aching from clashing hard with another's. It was bruised lips from pressure and cruel love bites meant to draw screams. It was being smothered beneath a stinking hand to force her to gasp for air, and choking on another's tongue.

She wanted to bite and claw and scream. She wanted to tear into his flesh, just as he was into hers… he was a fool for getting close enough for her to hurt—no. no. Be still. It wouldn't be worth the momentary satisfaction of his blood on her lips... he could do far, far too much damage, more than Bella ever could. She wouldn't survive it, not again.

* * *

She was stone beneath his lips and he retreated slightly resting his forehead against her watching her carefully. The instant he released her, the wide, dark eyes clamped shut, frozen for a heartbeat, then she flinched suddenly, and seemingly without cause, before lunging closer. He almost wasn't quick enough to clear chin when she dove for the cover provided by his broad shoulders and sheltering arms. She hid her face against his shoulder and gasped for the air she had ceased to draw in her fear. She was vibrating with strangled sobs she refused to let out, fighting against rising nausea.

Rubbing her back gently, he held her and absorbed her dry sobs, absorbed her pain and bitterness and fear. He was night, black, he had sinned, but then…white pure things reflected everything back at the viewer, and that was not what she needed. She needed someone else to hold these violent, evil things, hold them so they weren't inside her, destroying her. A clean righteous thing could never contain the self-loathing and hate, could not fathom the pain of her mental scars, or the brutality of the beasts that had left them there. To him they were familiar things, the jagged broken edges of her pain meshed well with the ugliness in his own heart, and like the first night he could shoulder the burden for her.

Within the space of thirty of his deep, slow breaths she had regained a rigid composure. It was as she had said before… she had lived through that hell once…daily, had her worst moments played in rapid recap by dementors, whose only real cruelty to her was failing in their intended purpose . After all, she was still sane. As she had said she could do it again. She had determined that she would do it again… and he would be the instrument of her destruction.

Gently, as if she were made of the most delicate silken veil he brushed his fingers down her back, stroking her hair, rubbing light circles onto the back of her neck, the hard, purpled muscle of her jaw clenched to shatter molars.

Again his touch was safe, and comforting. He knew because she did not simply go limp under his hands, instinct honed from her time with Bellatrix to never resist her tormentors or risk greater pain, she softened to it, relaxed and allowed it to be a comfort. He did not know how she could discriminate the hair of difference he himself could barely see, but being a woman… it was evidently painfully apparent to her. She knew and feared the instant his attentions drifted toward tender even hinted in the vaguest way of intimacy, yet to caring and gentle, even roughly forced comfort, to these she gave tacit consent.

So

This was good.

That was not.

All right

This could be dealt with, now that he understood his parameters.

He was getting better at understanding her, but suspected this ability had more to do with having seen her mind, and recognized some things of himself there, than any greater ability to connect with other beings. He was abrupt, and cruel, and hard. She simply saw through those things more often than most. She, unlike most people expected to see the very basest and worst of people… he… through the testament of her memory, did not compare with that which she viewed as truly vile. It was amusing really, that it took someone who knew true evil to see what he was, when those who were evil thought him one of them.

But, that was foolish idealism.

It was far more likely that she was simply so desperate to see humanity in someone… she chose to see it in him… after all…he had just forced himself on an abused woman, little more than a child to him. She had not acted to stop him, but her body language might as well have screamed of her unwillingness. He had knowingly broken down her carefully constructed defenses left her bare and watched as she crumbled into the madness of memory. And now he soothed her, allowing her to think he was safe, knowing it would hurt her a hundred times more when he broke that trust later. Would a kind of forced acclimation to him make it less of a violation? He doubted it.

Because that was the clean way of putting it. What he was really doing, was taking a woman who had, for years, been forced to comply under threat of sexual assault and offering the same threat. A threat she was conditioned to comply with, using it, and the fear it inspired to mold her into the mentality he found most favorable to his purposes.

Carefully he released her, "Damn it…what in the name of—," he growled out angered and ashamed of his actions.

She cringed, afraid, quite suddenly, that her reaction of utter disgust, might offend him. She could not afford his ill will, "I'm sorry… it's not… I trust you—but in my head, it's bad. I'm not disgusted… It's…I understand you're being gentle with me…I—"

She bowed her head, looking small and frightened. Her body language was that of a supplicant, begging for patience. One, pale hand suddenly clenching tightly into the edge of his robe.

'_Please don't give up on me! I'll try harder…please… please don't be angry, don't hurt me.'_

Appalled by her sudden reversal of attitude he realized he had again stepped over his bounds as a caretaker into that of a keeper. He had pushed her, threatened the core of what she was… and then spoken in his usual clipped manner. He knew she was not fully in her right mindset, unsettled, too unnerved to understand his ire and disgust was directed at himself...that only a madman could possibly blame her for anything. He should not be surprised that instinctively, defensively she reacted as she would to any other who caused her pain in this way, with words and gestures of submission, anything to make the pain stop, to protect herself. After all… the first objective in a hostage situation is to give your captor what they want. He knew all too well how these survival personalities could become more present then the original, until a victim was little more than the puppet their tormentor had molded them to be. This was, as of yet, merely the mask of submission, but the fear in her was real… and it was that fear that would, given the right stimuli, cement this mask in place, make her little more than pliant, broken doll.

It scared him, the image her instinct told her to play. Was this the creature his actions told her he wanted? The posture that she calculated would gentle his hand. Was this pitiful and broken girl, the mask…what he expected of her? The fear lighting her eyes was not what cut deep; it was the needy desperation, a look chosen to pantomime adoration. Like a starving, beaten pup, licking the boot that staved in its ribs.

That was not Hermione Granger. This was what Hermione thought he wanted to see in his little rescue project. This was the construct he had been projecting onto her… and it disgusted him to see it and understand the injustice he had paid her, when he unintentionally became her keeper. This was the half-dead thing that had survived Bellatrix, a puppet to the desires of her keeper.

Carefully, he reached out and touched her shoulder, grimacing when she flinched violently away from the contact. Pure fear, unadulterated by any form of reason, spread like a stain across her face. Never had he seen such a thing in her eyes, provoked by him, and it forced an explanation for himself, uncharacteristic though it was, "Shhh… no one's going to hurt you. You are not in danger. I'm not angry. I won't hurt you. Hermione stop. Stop. Your reaction is completely understandable. My irritation is with no one but myself. I don't expect anything from you… I overstepped myself. I will not do so again."

She shrank away from him, folding into a defensive huddle, her back and shoulders becoming rigid and tense.

"Hermione?"

Her voice came out muffled by her lap, but slow, deliberate, "How can you do this to me? It took her _months_… yet at a word from you I'm cowering on the floor, baring my belly, and begging you to forgive me."

Snape stiffened, God damn him, even when he was trying to help her he caused her pain, "Hermione—" he fell silent when she hissed.

"You do THAT. Reminding me I'm human, I'm Hermione, not mudblood, not bitch, not whore. You can hurt Hermione… that other woman, those things, those words, the pain, it doesn't matter to her, she's tougher, she wouldn't beg like this. Like Hermione does."

Reaching out he grasped her shoulders, ignoring her brief, violent effort to twist away, "Hermione Granger, look at me."

Eyes reddened by suppressed tears, met his and she glared bitterly at him, afraid, but not, desperate, but not. He could almost see the mask, half lowered, as the real woman inside peered out.

"Beneath the fear and the stress, you know I am trying to help you. Please Hermione, you trust me. I need you to trust me," slowly he gentled his grip, and was relieved when her gaze softened and she relaxed slightly, it was not forgiveness, it was not trust, it was quid pro quo.

He tried logic, Hermione could deal with that, it was when he brought insensible emotion into play that she was overwhelmed, "The thing you're referring to, the woman who survived in that cell. I met her, Hermione, and let me tell you something. She wasn't stronger, she wasn't even human. She was just a shell, a bundle of conditioned responses beneath which, Hermione Granger was trying to stay sane. You feel so much more fragile now, because you trust me enough that you don't hide behind that mask all the time, and slipping behind it suddenly, when I threaten you, feels like you are losing control of your actions. I need _you_ to stay with me Hermione."

He released her, and in return she did not curl fully into her fetal position, though her face remained hidden from him.

"I'm this broken crying creature… my head is so messed up… the slightest thing makes me want to break down—no, it makes me want to do whatever it is you want me to do…I'm weak. What if I can't…can't do this?" She said in a low toneless voice to her lap.

Slowly, he reached out, touching her back lightly. When this evoked no negative response he began to rub her back firmly focusing on the tension between her shoulder blades, "It will not be done tonight. We can plan and prepare… as if the both of us are willing. It will take time to learn more about these rituals and still more time to brew the appropriate potions, craft spells, and rune circles. You have time…"

Slowly she relaxed, and at his coaxing lifted her face to his, she seemed to have recovered herself somewhat and just looked tired, but no longer needy. It was a relief, to see Hermione looking at him out of her eyes. He had been so afraid to see the mask come back after so long, having been privileged to deal with Hermione.

"What if it's never enough time?"

He squeezed her hand, saying nothing. There was never anything to say. But he did not leave her, could not leave her, after callously opening old wounds it would be cruel to leave her to find a way to staunch the bleeding alone.

Instead he gave her silence, and acceptance, and privacy, without abandonment.

He summoned more parchment and ink and as well as a few books on golems, trying to work out what exactly they would need to change so as to achieve flesh bodies rather than clay forms.

Her numbers were good. Rather advanced work and he wondered when she had previously tried to change mass to have worked with the equations. He tossed around the idea of her as an animagi, but discarded it. It would be too coincidental if two generations of Potter's with their friends succeeded in becoming young, unregistered animagi.

So that only left advanced transfiguration work, most accomplished transfiguration masters kept their work within a mass change of four to five kilograms. More than that and it became difficult; a tea cup into a rat, but not into a rooster.

After several minutes she rose and retrieving several potions indexes began writing out lists of ingredients they might find useful .

…

Female potion/anointing

Fertility-agaric, sea water, siren hair, bistors, cyclamen

Change/evolution/ rebirth- Phoenix feathers, elder, birch, serpent fangs, honey bee propolis

Mental clarity- fire agate, garnet, rose crystal

Purity- silver, rosemary, unicorn horn, lamb's wool, dove egg shells, pearls, moonstone, spring water, witch hazel, white lotus, thyme

Male

Power/strength- oak, agate, obsidian, ebony, dragon scales

Transference- rowan, ash

Purity- sage, spring water

…

Pausing in his own work Snape cast an eye over her notes. She had paused and was nibbling on the end of her feather quill a familiar expression of concentration on her features. Her face rested on one hand, nails tapping absently at her cheek while her eyes scanned her text.

It was like years of pain had melted off of her. How he wanted to see a wand returned to her hands… if she were registered to him, if she became Hermione _doma_ Prince… She would probably kill him.

It was similar to the habit of naming a married woman: Molly Weasley nee Prewett, nothing but pirated French, Molly Weasley _maiden name_ Prewett. If he truly marked Hermione she would be registered as Hermione Granger _doma_ Prince, Hermione Granger _the domain and property of_ Prince. She would be able to reenter society… lowest class to be sure, but bearing his name she would be able to use his sizable influence to achieve a power and independence most muggle-borns would never know under Voldemort: a wand being the most immediate of these advantages.

But he should not consider such things… only if they failed in this. Only then would he begin planning ways for her to live in Voldemort's world. He would hold off forcing that indignity upon her till the last.

Reaching out he added to her list, beside the feminine properties he added:

**Peace-tranquility-harmony—willow, lavender, dragonfly wings, jade**

Then he made an addition to the masculine side:

**Protection- rowan, bear claw**

She had drawn back slightly to make room for him to write, and stared blankly at his additions for a moment. Lifting her brows slightly she looked over at him. He remained stoic. Without a word she made a further addition to her male properties:

Nobility/honor/will-oak, elk horns, red hawk/golden eagle feathers, gryphon talons

He quirked his brow, she shrugged and said, "Should anointing be done in oil, as is traditional or water?"

He studied her list compounding several ingredients into another grouping.

**Essential oil— (Purity) Rosemary, sage, thyme, and witch hazel: (Harmony) lavender and willow: (Fertility) bistors and cyclamen: (Rebirth/Renewal) honey bee propolis. **

"For the both of us?" she asked

He paused and was surprised when she pushed a sheet of notes on the purposes of anointing individuals across to him, the most common being as a mark of distinction, in purifying ceremonies, and for binding.

"I think not… the risk of becoming bound is too great."

She leaned back pushing the list in front of him giving them both some personal space, "Honestly… I kinda figured that part was unavoidable, hence our felicitous 'conjugal' arrangement."

He smirked slightly in appreciation of her biting sarcasm, "I don't want to completely destroy any chances of us coming out of this…"

"Normal, sane, single, unattached?" she interjected.

"Besides that… I suspect if we go the traditional route I will be pulling your magic into myself…rather than the other way around."

"Perhaps transference and connective properties keyed to me?" she suggested.

He nodded, "In the potion at the least… the conventional I think, hair, tears, and blood."

She tipped back in her chair slightly her eyes closing in concentration, "Why not follow the pervasive yin and yang, dark and light, balance motif, we have been provided with. If for current purposes I am the light, anointed in oil, let's mark you with ash."

Reaching out she penned beneath his notes about oil:

Anointing Ash—(Purity) sage (Power/nobility) oak (strength) ebony (Transference) ash tree

"We're leaning strongly toward flora…it should be a good counter to any blood we need to use for keying purposes."

She nodded and balance was restored to their little world as they both pretended this was an impersonal research project, interesting, intriguing, difficult, but certainly not shameful, disgusting, terrifying, and brutal.

He was simply Severus Snape, Potions Master,

not the Dark Lord's Lieutenant, not her newest captor.

She, Hermione Granger, Brightest Witch of Her Age,

not Bellatrix's broken toy, not Snape's either.

They both needed to believe that if they upheld the illusion for long enough… it would be real. By now, they had been playing the game for so long… they couldn't always tell what audience they were pretending for and which truth they more real than the other. It was really more of a coin toss, neither knowing if they needed it to fall heads or tails to survive the next gauntlet.

* * *

I hope this chapter helped to explain a little of how bipolar they both tend to be… I dunno if it makes as much sense on paper as it does in my head, but ehh, I tried.

I hope you enjoyed a little bit of H/S. ^_^ Poor Snape. He tries so very hard not to influence her… but can't avoid it. I think he needed to see what he'd end up with if he pushes Hermione the wrong way.

Until next time, my dears, you are all beautiful people.


	19. Chapter 19 - Reckless

Ch 19

Reckless

They worked for three weeks, writing out drafts and plans, researching, experimenting, testing… hoping.

It was slow going, if Snape was called away… which was far too often… she, wandless, did not risk tinkering with any of the more unstable ingredients. Too often a wand was the only utensil that could be used to agitate the delicate brews, and without a ready ability to shield herself from possible explosions she did not want to risk introducing new, unknown ingredients into their experimental potions, in the form of whatever she chose to stir with.

Hermione contented herself with the research and theory side of things. She had the distinct impression that while she was welcome to anything in the library he was disinclined to give her as free a reign in his lab. She wondered for a time, if this was out of fear for her safety, fear of what she might find, or a simple masculine territorial marking… she rather thought it was a mixture of the two former as he seemed to have no problem with her tinkering in his more… benign substances.

* * *

Snape entered the low narrow doorway of the shop, an expression of bland distaste seated firmly on his face, creasing his features deeply. The shop smelled strongly of dust and mould and a hundred or more ingredients, both common and less so.

Approaching the bald, twitchy wizard behind the counter with his usual intimidating stride he was unsurprised when the man, partially deaf to his own irritatingly loud bell, started, sending a sizable pile of powdered scarab carapace exploding into the air.

Before the highly volatile powder could go more than a foot, covering the shopkeeper's hands in small, tightly packed, swollen pustules, he barked out, "Congelo!"

Freezing the particles in place before a silent evanesco vanished the dangerous substance into the glass flask that thankfully had remained undamaged during the deafened old shop keeper's minor panic attack.

The shop keeper stared transfixed by surprise at him for several long seconds.

Finally, Snape drawled, "If you have nothing better to do, I would highly suggest pouring some jewel weed oil over your hands before you fetch my order."

At this the other leapt into a flurry of action which to Snape's intense surprise did not upset a thing in the shop where it seemed every available bit of space was taken up by some highly dangerous or just plain delicate potion's ingredient.

"Ahh, yes sir, yes indeed sir. My most humblest apologies sir, you did give an old man a shock there, indeed you did. Well…Ahem… much better now. I really do need to be getting myself a louder door chime, I never do hear the bloody thing open—" the shop owner rattled off, his voice trailing into indistinct mutterings as he had already retreated into the back room to treat his hands, as they began swelling to the size of small beach balls,

He reentered the front display room sometime later several packages in his, now only slightly reddened hands, "—the most trickiest ingredient. It really is, haven't the faintest as to what it might be good for excepting old fashioned summoning circles. Quirkiest things those, so much can go wrong. Right tricky they are. Now, purple ochre, rare stuff this. It's not often I get an order for it, and let me tell you I get some of the strangest orders, indeed I do. But, good quality ochre, I got it. My usual pigment supplier in Leeds, I says Jeff, you owe me a good stiff dram, you see sir, him and me, we've had a running bet these last… twenty some years it must be… on his being able to supply me the pigments I be needing for my specialty orders. So far he's only let me down twice."

As he rambled he puttered around the behind his counter bringing several more packages out to the counter seemingly oblivious to Snape's ire at having the nature of his purchases analyzed and discussed aloud in an appallingly under-warded, practically public, area.

He cast a silent _Muffliato, inhibiting any listening spells set in the shop, and preventing snooping passerby from hearing anything sensitive. _

"Well, he doesn't owe me this time. No indeed, Jeff, the scoundrel, he knows a man in Gloucestershire. Now few people know it, but in the Forest of Dean there be mines for some very high quality ochre, red, yellow and even brown, but even I didn't suspect there was any purple to be mined there. But Jeff he says to me, no siree, there ain't any purple ochre to be had, the stuff was mined out in the fifteen hundreds; high demand there was for it then. But he knows a chap. he operates the largest of the mines, a family business he runs, been in their family for nigh on ten generations, and would you believe he's still got some stores of the original England mined purple ochre. His great, great, great grand uncle or somesuch stockpiled some of the best, truest colored purples at the height of mining it, the heart of the mother lode. He keeps it under lock and key in his office and Jeff had to visit the man personally, to even get a look at a sample. I was sure I was going to have to send to France and the purple mined there is really more of a brownish red. Not the quality you see in old English paintings. Hefty price for it, but well worth it, well worth it indeed."

Deas was an irritating, chatty old codger, but… he was reliable, his ingredients were always the freshest, highest quality and most potent to be had… he was also willing to sell restricted or blacklisted items without batting an eye… probably had something to do with who Snape was, and Deas penchant for stymieing the authorities with a combination of sudden, selective, and extreme onset senility, a mulish blockheadedness that bordered on insanity, and no scruples about blackmail. Deas had lived through Grindewald and was too old to take it upon himself to be bothered by this new upstart…Voldi…what was the man calling himself these days? He sold potions ingredients, all wizards in the greyer area of the law came to him for these ingredients, because his were the best. And what business did the ministry, death eaters or anybody else have in his shop, unless they were buying?

'Oh…Basilisk venom is not to be sold without a license? When did—in my day… Boy, I've been selling my venom since before your mother was a twinkling in her mother's eye, and do you know what, in all that time I've never had to 'license' anything with nobody and until you get yourselves some higher authorities in here ye'd best be off. Because let me tell you I have customers who would be most prickly if I were to have to register their orders with anybody.'

'Mr. Deas, it's not a matter or reporting orders (utter codswallop of course) it's a matter of quality control,' the young officious wizard exclaimed in a slight sweat… he had become too used to people trembling in fear before his black robes and the silvered-grey skull and snake insignia.

The old man frowned darkly advancing from behind his counter to stand toe to toe with the little upstart, 'Quality? I'll have you know I been selling the most highest standards of goods since before your quality controls were introduced, since before they were thought of. You trust me, I'd be right quick out of business, out of life mebe if'n my goods were to be less than that. There'd be folks, folks such as yourself mebe who'd find it mighty amiss if what they thought was four finger's width of boomslang skin was actually copperhead skin, already shed. And then say, someone who like yourself, bought that skin and brewed it into… I don't rightly know, a polyjuice potion, they might find themselves in quite a fix having their innards liquefying on them an all. But what if this isn't really about quality, what if it's about trackin' what peoples be doing in their own homes, now you might find it mighty unsettlin' if it was to be bandied about the ministry you were buying up boomslang skin and bicorn horn like they was horehound sticks at May Day.'

The young polyjuice brewer was wise to retreat when he did.

Although Snape could get the ingredients through the proper channels given his high rank, he did not need anyone finding out about his purchasing phoenix feathers, and tears, or perhaps ten others of his fifteen items.

The old shop keeper was still chatting in his usual manner, he had a right liking for Snape it seemed, a loyal customer, always sure to come up with ingredients that gave him a right challenge hunting down, besides that several evenings of enjoyment spent trying to discern what the man might possibly be brewing.

Snape glowered disapprovingly at the man after this rather bald observation and the shop owner winked cheerfully at him, "Now, don't you be worrying yourself about nothing. It gives an old man something to occupy his time with, none of the usual boring polyjuice potions and simpleton's poisons, all I ever seem to be selling these days," he sighed at the lack of ingenuity before continuing, "Seems as if this generation is just woefully lacking in any appreciation for the subtler arts of brewing, nothing new and interesting at all. Now, here you be, all as promised, several rounds of seasoned heartwood from oak, ebony, elder and ash. You wouldn't be tinkering in wand making would you?"

Snape frowned, giving no answer.

"Ah, well, fine then, leave an old man in the dark, you have green wood harvested under a full moon of rowan, birch, witch hazel, and willow, I don't sell these often… they were far more favored by druidic wizards, fell out of use in the last century for anything but wand makers... you don't meet many brewers willing to deal in magical lumber. Then we have the sea locks of a siren, black dragon scales, phoenix feathers and tears (hard to obtain, let me tell you) and Asiatic sunbear claws. You also ordered a wide array of semi-precious stones, moonstone flaked, jade, fire and water agate, obsidian, rose crystal, and garnet, I ordered that specifically from the Czechs, lovely blood red garnet they mine there, none of the shoddy orangey-yellow stuff you usually get. Then of course your very large order of purple ochre, may I suggest shrinking that down before you attempt to transport it? And your three tailed arctic fox bones taken when the fox had partially shed its white winter coat into its blue summer coat… interesting choice… a guiding force for the living and the deceased, a shape shifter, focus and determination, very good for powerful spells, feminine magic, an odd choice for you sir, and strongly protective."

"Why exactly do we do this every time? You know I don't ever intend to let you in on what I'm doing with it."

The old man chuckled at his blank tone, "No, indeed you don't, sir, indeed you don't, but one day you may slip up."

"And then?" this was uttered with a note of threat.

"Oh, do lighten up, times like these, there's nary a wizard alive who isn't doing something a little on the shady side. You dabble a bit more than usual, but considering your employers, it's to be expected. Can't let a mind like yours go to waste—"

Snape struggled not to reveal growing shock at the man's utter lack of any fear in either him, or the Dark Wizard he worked for. How this man managed to not be dragged in for "crimes slanderous to the glory of the Dark Overlord" was beyond him… the old codger was probably too bullheaded for lower death eaters to handle and too valuable to others for the lackeys to bring the problem to higher ups.

"Besides, you're a sight more civil than your fellows, a very good customer, and like I said, brewing things much more interesting than a polyjuice."

Snape stared at him with ill concealed confusion.

The old man spread his hands, "I'm a simple old potioneer, you make my life less dull. Is it so rare to find someone who isn't out to stab you in the back? Ha, I'm asking the wrong man, forgive me, sir, I do believe most of those you suspect are out for your blood, really are. Now, if I am not mistaken this is one of the longest dialogues we've ever had, mostly these visits are highly entertaining monologues. Thank you, sir for putting up with a curious old man. Ten percent off the whole purchase, and do feel free to come by if you've anything else you need. "

Snape nodded gravely, paid out the correct amount, quite a sum considering both the rare nature of many of the items and the quantities at which he was buying… one did not ask Deas for a rush order, he procured whatever item you requested, in whatever time was necessary to find you the highest quality, possible.

Snape then cast a quick shrinking charm over the items and slid them into a pocket that was enlarged by an undetectable extension charm. He kept the parcel of flaked moonstone in his hands, just in the event someone took it upon themselves to ask what he had obtained from Rare Goods: Buys, Trades, and Sells.

As he left Deas gave him a smile, "Do bring by anything interesting you collect excess of. With you, sir, I'm always willing to make a trade, that tentracula venom you procured, very fresh, quite potent. There's quite a market for fresh leaves too if you're interested."

Snape smirked slightly as he exited the cramped shop, of course Deas was willing to announce in broad daylight a trade in a class C non-tradable substance… Deas had no fear. It was wise to keep on Deas good side, and it wasn't hard to procure a little more venom from the tentracula that grew beside his front door. It was a superb defense against the unwary interloper that somehow got past his wards.

* * *

Hermione glowered darkly at the pages upon pages of ogham runes, still more pages of more conventional, Scandinavian runes, a chart of various runes used by far eastern mages… what to use? What was most fitting?

Her first instinct said Ogham runes, the prophesy had been made by a Druidic witch who had probably worked exclusively in Ogham, but those were so ancient… They would be hard to use to craft a spell with the kind of accuracy they needed.

Far eastern runes, seemed to fit their purposes most readily, change, evolution, harmony, rebirth, and new life strong in that system of writing, but again she was woefully unfamiliar with its exact application.

The easiest would be conventional rune magic. It was in slightly less than uncommon use today, rune magic not being a highly popular branch ever, and it was limited… Elder Futhark script was used for summoning and binding of spirits and daemons, or for some types of divination.

Finally, she decided to draft the rune circles in a mixture of the more common Scandinavian runes, and the ancient Ogham runes. The Scandinavian runes, she hoped would direct the working with the…specificity she needed, but the magic would recognize the Ogham, and might mesh more naturally with the spell that way.

She decided, for the sake of order to work with an inner circle of Ogham runes, to draw the magic out, and to mold it, with an outer circle of Scandinavian Runes to take that power, channel, and harness it.

But this would only draw the summoned magic back into themselves… which was utterly useless. So… perhaps individual circles around each of the clay golems so the main circle could act as a gate transferring the power to the other circles…

* * *

Snape stared at the smoking, melted puddle of iron that used to be a cauldron, from behind his hastily erected shielding charm. So much for a brew that would bring peace… it seemed the serpent's fangs interacted badly with the moonstone and dove shells. Vanishing yet another failure, he summoned a new cauldron and began again. Perhaps if the venom were extracted from the fangs first….

* * *

He returned one afternoon to find Hermione seated just inside the door of his home. The door was open and from the various leaf matter that had blown in off the outer stoop she had been in that position for some time.

"What are you doing?" He asked, the words came out clipped, harsher than he intended and she flinched back from the threshold several paces, a flash of panic vanishing behind a fixedly empty gaze.

Quickly, he backpedaled, "Hermione, are you alright?"

Her face remained blank, she stayed crouched low to the floor, her eyes avoiding him.

"Hermione? Are you hurt?"

Her eyes shifted after several minutes to meet his, "No."

The admission was soft, and calm, without any sort of anxiety or discomfort tingeing her voice.

Mounting the steps to the door he crouched down on his haunches, "Would you like to go outside?"

Stiffly she nodded, her expression shifting when her upper teeth captured her lower lip pressing viciously for a brief moment before she managed to school her features.

"Have you been sitting here long?"

"Yes."

"Why?" He was very mindful to keep his voice low and soothing.

She made a short abrupt gesture at the threshold, "I can't."

His brow furrowed, there was nothing he could see preventing her from crossing the threshold, "Do you do this often?"

She made no outward response and he took it as a yes.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

The edges of her lips twitched as if to frown, her eyes sliding away from his, "It's stupid. Weak."

Extending his hand so that his palm hovered over the threshold he looked expectantly to her.

The mask shifted a little more and she went back to nervously biting her lips.

Gingerly, she scooted forward and finally reached out to place the tips of her fingers into his grip.

Standing he pulled her to her feet, but made no attempt to pull her across the threshold.

"What are you afraid of?"

Her face screwed up in frustration, "That's the problem. I don't KNOW. It's not the light. I want the light. I want the openness. I want to feel the wind on my face and smell the grass. I. Just. Can't."

He nodded, "Is it just too much altogether? I know you keep all the windows open, and stay in sunny spots in the house when you're alone."

She blushed, and he squeezed her fingers encouragingly, "Close your eyes."

He was surprised when she followed his advice without question.

"You're safe here. I want you to take a step forward, just a small one. Don't worry, I'll keep you from falling…" he kept up the meaningless litany as he guided her through the doorway, down the steps and into the grass.

It was like a massive weight he had not known was sitting on his chest, compressing his lungs, was lifted when her small bare feet sunk into the lawn, and a small smile pulled her drawn features. He stopped then. Watched her face carefully, just barely holding her fingers in his grip.

He jumped in surprise when she took two steps forward on her own, her hand leaving his to press firmly to his chest. Keeping her eyes firmly closed she smirked when she felt his body tense and recoil. Then she gracefully folded into a seated position closing her hand loosely in the fabric of his black robes.

He spent at least five minutes staring down at her in stupefaction. Her head was thrown back, to better catch the sun on her face, the fingers of her free hand digging into the dirt of the lawn. When he finally worked up the courage to sit beside her on the grass, her smile widened. It was radiant.

When she opened her eyes it was only when he had placed his hand around hers.

"What was I afraid of?" she breathed into the easy stillness.

He said nothing, but tightened his grip on her hand. She returned the gesture.

* * *

She quickly discovered that Severus would never bother with a garden unless it was useful. There were enough magical and non-magical plants here to put Professor Sprout to shame. She put her time outdoors to good use collecting the herbs they would need, at all of the auspicious times, drying and processing the flora with care.

She went out at dawn, the time of new life, purity, and peace, and harvested thyme, witch hazel, bistors, and cyclamen, still wet with dew. The cyclamen she put under a stasis spell to preserve it perfectly, the others she dried. She harvested white lotus flowers precisely at noon, when the delicate blooms were fully opened, and placed these too under stasis charms. Sage and lavender she harvested at twilight, the time of change, magic, rest, and power, drying it in large bundles hung from the rafters of his store room. Later she bound some of the sage bunches into smudge sticks using unicorn hair, further purity, to bind them. Set aside a few bunches for essential oils.

The rest she processed into fine ash, burning and grinding until the fine black soot would fill the air at the slightest provocation. The oak, ash, and ebony were harder to get to the correct grade. First she slow heated the chips of heartwood until she had good quality charcoal, then she took a pedestal and mortar and ground these chips down, and down and down….

The lavender took even further processing. She steam distilled pure lavender essential oil from the dried flower spears. She did the same for the cyclamen, bistors, witch hazel, and thyme… the oils were more potent if they were taken from freshly harvested plants and quickly processed, one could never be sure how long the store bought had sat on the shelves, or when that flora had been harvested.

* * *

Hermione's brow furrowed in concentration, now was not the time for shaking hands or stray ink blots… a single wobbly line or mis-stroke of the ink and if these circles were utilized they would be utterly useless. So that meant tons of practice, so it would be done correctly when it really mattered.

A shadow fell over her page and she started slightly, smearing the down stroke of Auroch, a Scandinavian rune for strength, energy, and masculine power. Growling under her breath she sat back acknowledging Snape's silent motion of apology with a nod.

She huffed out a breath, "I can practice all I want, but I swear, when it comes right down to it, I'm going to be shaking fit to loose teeth from my jaw and this rune circle is going to go to squiggly lines and ink splotches."

He studied several pages of her complex work. She had nearly finalized the rune work of the main circle. each member of the ring was notated with a brief delineation of its meaning and intent. Within the outer, Scandinavian ring, at the top of the ring she had Fehu, the symbol of creation and destruction, the symbol of becoming. This was contained by Uruz, the Aurorch, masculine strength on the right and Perthro, feminine mystery on the left. It was the perfect balance seven feminine runes balanced seven masculine runes, the number of wholeness, and of druidic magic.

Down the left, feminine side of the circle ran; Thuriaz, the horn, regenerative catalyst, catharsis, fertility, followed by, Hagalaz, hail, strife leading to inner harmony, Jera, the fruitful season, life cycle, change, and new life, Sowilo, sun, life-force, drawing power for positive change, and connecting the conscious mind with the unconscious mind, and next to last came Laguz, water, flow, change, fertility, life energy, and the mind.

Down the right, masculine side ran; Gebo, balance, and partnership, Nauthiz, need, determination, will, Eihwaz, the yew, strength, dependability, trustworthiness, protection, then came Tiwaz, honor, justice, leadership, authority, willingness for self-sacrifice, and logic, and Ignwaz, the earth god, masculine virility, strength, calm, humanity.

At the very bottom, opposite Fehu, neither left nor right, male or female, but both was Algiz, the elk, protection, a shield, guardian defender, and used to channel energy appropriately. It was most immediately encircled on the masculine right by Ehwaz, the horse, loyalty, harmony, partnership, and marriage, and on the feminine left by Othala, group order, group prosperity, and self-sacrifice of the individual.

He tapped several of the runes which by the name had been marked by an astrix, "What does this mean?"

She frowned rubbing her temples to banish a bourgeoning headache, "It means that over half of the runes I needed to use have underlying currents of binding and marriage… it goes down the whole list…sorry…"

He waved off the pointless apology, the runes marked as such were quite necessary to the core of the spell… it was much more of a trial for her. That was why he was deliberately avoiding helping her with the rune work… he would not let it be said that he bound her to himself without her knowledge. No, anything that became of them, she would craft. He was honest enough to acknowledge that he could not deal with that sort of responsibility. The inevitability of this working having lasting repercussions seemed to be rearing its ugly head more and more often as they progressed in their work. He had trained himself to outward indifference. Expressing the inner panic attack occurring at each mention of binding the girl, perhaps permanently, to him would do her no good.

He then turned his attention to the inner circle, it was done in druidic Ogham runes.

Around the inner ring with seemingly no top or bottom, or even a starting point there ran a continuous cycle. Ogham, the tree alphabet, was written as symbols grown off of a central vine or trunk, for a starting point he began just to the right of the nominal 'top' of the Scandinavian rune circle continuing clockwise.

Beithe, the white lady of the woods, birch, beginning, renewal, life, it was an appropriate starting place. Gort, ivy, or change seemed to be written as the binding agent among the other symbols. Then came Fern, the alder tree, a symbol for enduring strength and perseverance, near it Muin, the vine, it meant continuity and fertility, then came Luis, the witchwood, rowan, connection, protection, and magic. Next was marked Ruis, the elder, it was life and death, cyclical rebirth and regeneration, transformation, and protection against evil intent.

Huath followed, it was the may tree, hawthorn, it represented the union of opposites, contradiction and duality, merged in relationship as a singularity. Thorns and pure white flowers, healing properties and the scent of corpses, male energy and feminine mystique, the power of balance, the perfect yin and yang. Nion, the ash tree, the cradle of life, towering strength, connection between sky and earth, between light and dark, it was resurrection and renewal, was beside Straif, or Blackthorn, discipline, will, and control.

Then, Ailm, the silver fir for mental clarity. Coll or witch hazel, a symbol of purity, and wisdom was marked beside Sailis, the tree of enchantment, white willow, sacred to the moon, and water, cyclical change, harmony, peace, but also an ability to survive strife because of its fluidity. Finally. Duir, the king of the trees, the oak, it was strength, nobility, honor, a vital life symbol, one of power linked to lightning.

Once he had analyzed these she handed him five smaller rune circles. These were far simpler and only echoed the main circle in so much as to tie them to the main working.

"Rather than channeling our power into each separate individual which will weaken us considerably and destroy the overall unity to the spell, I have grouped the… minds as they have bound themselves in my mind. The Weasleys will be together, Neville and Luna, Harry and Sirius, McGonagall and Dumbledore, one for each of the cardinal directions, each keyed to draw the mind those… forms are intended for."

The first circle was the Weasley family's, the outer Scandinavian circle, had only a few runes, at the head was Raidho, the chariot, it meant transference, relocation, and also evolution and change to the west lay Kenaz, the torch, the fire of transformation and regeneration, and to the east was Dagnaz, the dawn, awareness, awakening, and life. At the foot was Ingwaz, family love, simple strengths, caring, human warmth, the home and hearth.

The inner druidic circle was equally succinct, simply repeating the same incantation in endless cycle. It began with Idad, the world tree, yew, transference, passage to another realm, Ngetal, the water reed, harmony, health, growth, and family, Onn, gorse, transmutation and resourcefulness, and then Quert, the apple, for beauty, love and generosity. It was highly fitting for the Weasley family.

The Hogwarts students' outer ring was headed by the Raidho to link it to the main circle and rather than a base rune there were two, partnered runes one was Wunjo, joy, fellowship, spiritual enlightenment and vision, the other, Isa was patience, introspection, and steadfast solidity. It matched the seemingly opposite pair well.

The inner circle contained many of the same runes of change, transformation and connection but also several keying runes including, Sailis, the willow, for vision, imagination and freedom of thought, Ur, heather, dreams, romantic feelings, purity, and good luck, and Gort, ivy, for patience, determination, stalwart loyalty, and gradual change.

Albus and Minerva's outer bind was footed by Tiwaz, the sky god, he stood for honor, justice, leadership and authority, rationality, analysis, knowing where strength lies, and self-sacrifice. Their inner circle was keyed by Edad, the aspen, vision, victory, but also alteration, advantage, opportunity, manipulation for pure purposes, and Duir, the oak, strength, power, and the source of all wisdom.

The outer circle for Potter and his godfather was headed by Raidho and footed by Othala, ancestral property, what is truly important to one, heritage, source of safety, relationships. It was connecting Mannaz, mankind, the individual on the east with Levrier, the dog, loyalty, the hunter, the guardian, to the west. The inner circle was tuned to attract their minds with Luis, the rowan, protection, connection, and expression of feeling, which bound both Beithe, Birch, youth, to Duir, oak, age and wisdom through experience.

The five circles were oriented so on the northern end of the main circle was the Weasley's circle. The most power would be directed there, so it was logical to put it above the most powerful rune. The remaining circles which belonged to pairs, were distributed with Albus and Minerva to the south, a source of great power to balance the power that would be flowing north. The Eastern ring belonged to Longbottom and Lovegood, a token both to his skill with herbology and her ever youthful spring, flight and fancy nature, just as much as the west was a token to Black's wild canine character. They were in balance with one another, and with the main spell bound.

While he studied her rune work she had picked up quill and ink and was once more marking out the two concentric circles with their appropriate runes.

"It will be very difficult to ensure each is as perfect as it will need to be."

She frowned darkly at the page, "I know," she muttered.

"Would it be possible to copy the runes in the proper rune ink onto either stone slates, or…perhaps elk vellum?"

She looked up at him, "That could work… then, it could be ensured that each rune was absolutely perfect. I'll need to prepare that ink. Are you sure about using the artic fox bones? I've never worked with my own inks before…" she paused, "Wait… where exactly are we setting up these circles… we need… a lot of room, at least—"

She trailed off performing some quick calculations. She leaned back, blinking at her numbers, "Where are we going to find a six by six meter space?"

He quirked his brow tilting her paper so he could look at her calculations… but it was all correct, it was as compact a grouping as they could get without compromising the spell, besides that they didn't want it spread too far, magic lost potency over any amount of distance… the only place that would do…

"The only option is the meadow…" he admitted reluctantly, "The circles can be marked out by scorching the grass with bluebell flame and the vellum runes fixed in place with elk bone pins."

She nodded, "It might actually be best, under open sky, the full moon would be fortuitous, the more connections we can make to the earth, the more magic will be drawn by the summoning."

She was handling the suggestion that she would be taken… on the ground, in the forest, little more than an animal, very well…it just seemed so degrading for the woman. More and more often, as she established a hardened shell to the reality of what she was planning, he seemed to be the only one looking after her interests, and doing so badly.

He frowned deeply considering her rune circles. They were beautifully crafted, truly… they would guide and draw up power from around and within them very efficiently… but runes were above all used for binding, permanent binding, bindings that defied human conventions like marriage and annulment.

But which circle would be the more powerful, if they were lucky the binding would take its intent from the core of Ogham runes… that at least provided for an equal of partnership between male and female rather than the Norse… ownership.

But…either way, if Hermione went through with this she would never be truly free ever again. She would be bound to him… worst case, he would literally hold her life in his hands. Magically speaking, her power would become his. It was so spectacularly wrong, and sick, and depraved. It was brutal, ancient custom, begun to give magically inclined males more control over their witch wives.

He kept his mouth shut though. If she did not know, which he highly doubted, then there was no need to make this harder for her… or frighten her with something that might not come to pass. It was depressing that his highest hope remaining was for an equal binding… rather than the ownership that he had already told his master he would assume.

She had sprung to her feet and begun finalizing her ink recipe, arctic fox bone, charred, rowan and sage ash, carbon black and animal glue compounded from elk. It would be a variant of India ink, imbued with protective, guiding, and purifying forces.

These last weeks, at least when he was watching, she had been a constant flurry of activity. Nothing could stymie her for long, nothing deter her from productive action. He often felt like she was standing somewhere ahead of him on a rocky, bramble crowded path in askance as to what was holding him up. It was like she had seen her destruction coming at a distance and had determined to throw herself headlong off the cliff that would lead her to it. No hesitation, no dragging her feet, it was more Gryffindor bravery, idiotic self-sacrifice… he was too Slytherin not to first think of the consequences for himself… and lately her. He always considered the consequences for her, since she seemed not to take notice of them herself.

* * *

Whoo! longer chapter than usual. I hope I didn't lose ya'll with all the runes. I did so many hours of research it would've been a shame not to mention it. I also created the rune circles, if I can just get a decent quality picture of it I'll definitely get that up on my profile. Yes I may have gotten a bit obsessed, and my family now firmly believes I've converted to Wicca... but worth it, yep, definitely worth it.

A big thank you to all my reviewers, you seriously don't understand how precious reviews are to me.


	20. Chapter 20 - Can't Close Your Eyes

Ch 20

Can't Close Your Eyes

Snape looked up from his brewing, all had progressed well. He had nearly perfected his formula for the male potion…damn she was rubbing off on him he was now even thinking in the complicated circumlocution she used. Male potion, female runes; instead of the potion he would drink before he raped Hermione, the runes which would be the only bed she would be taken on. It was a very… intriguing mind game she had developed during her time with the dementors, it allowed her to think of things free from their emotional baggage… it was hyper-rationality so as to remain in utter control.

For over a week he had brewed the elk horn, dragon scales, Asiatic sun bear claws and spring water together, seven flight feathers from a black hawk and the talon's of a male gryphon powdered, were added and left to simmer for six hours. When the oak and rowan had been added the brew had reacted violently, but by adding the oak first, followed by the agate and shattered obsidian, the rowan was rendered relatively harmless, though the cauldron sputtered violently, sparks of purple, the color of power, leaping from the thick raven draught. He added fresh sage after another week of brewing and set the potion, now a silvery black, sparking occasionally with forest green and a purple so deep it seemed to blend with the black, to age in a smoking shed fed by green elder wood.

He was carefully adding crushed dove egg shells to the existing brew, _that __**Hermione**__ would drink_, when the woman in question entered his lab bearing several large scrolls and an almanac.

Putting aside his delicate work he gave her his attention, she rarely interrupted him in the lab unless it was important… he had little enough time in his lab as it was to work on the brewing.

Laying out her charts on the one empty lab table near the door, 'Her space' in his lab. She used the area to process the ingredients she collected and to concoct her inks and…various anointing materials.

"Do you know anything about Lughnasadh?"

"Some sort of harvest festival in early autumn for the Celts?" He hazarded the guess.

"It's traditionally held on august first. It is in celebration of the first fruits of the land feeding her children, it is a time of both beginnings and ends. It was originally called Brón Torgain, the birthing pains of the first mother. It was seen as a time to make agreements, such as hand fastenings and marriages, as well as treaties. This year, the full moon coincides with the date."

He glanced over her charts, he really ought to stop that, it wasn't that he didn't trust her findings… he was simply taking every possible opportunity to find a way out of this mess… it was getting late in the game and the path of retreat had not shown itself, "Seems, fortuitous…" he frowned, "Almost too much so… I am beginning to detest feeling manipulated."

She nodded in understanding, and turned her attention to his brewing, "Could you be finished by then? I've almost completed the ink. It should only take a week, maybe two to create all the runes I need. Then I can begin mapping out these rings in the field…polishing elk bone pins… and I'm good on my end. The anointing oil has been curing under noon sunlight and the ash under the moon…"

Three weeks? Was that all the time they had? He looked down at the woman. Physically, she had recovered from four years in hell in a little under a month and a half. Her skin was still paler than his, and she was very very thin, but just a hair on the side of normal. The few scars remaining from close encounters with dark magic had lost the ropy red appearance. She was whole… it seemed too short a respite if he was only going to break her all over again at the end of the month.

Stiffly he nodded, "I can be finished in three weeks."

She was perched on the edge of the table, her legs swinging carelessly… with stressed childishness, but when he gave her a definite timeline, the life seemed to go out of her. She looked tired and pale… the effort of maintaining the illusion too much to bear. She had been straining herself, working too long and refusing to sleep till late.

Carefully he reached out and brushed, now shoulder length, honeyed curls back from her face. They had been dancing delicately around the issue for a month now… at first she could… deal with the little things.

But now… when she went all soft and warm and quiet… he found he enjoyed her little moments of contentment as much as she did. It was pleasant to have a woman soft and practically purring in his hands. It was enjoyable to see her soak up the physical contact like a man in the desert drinks spring water.

She sighed heavily and leaned her forehead against his palm, rough with callous and dusted with a layer of white powder from birch bark, and smelling strongly of honey from the freshly collected bee propolis… she had melted some of the stuff into the anointing oil as well. It reminded her of hot, summer days, the air thrumming with the hum of bees, the shouts of the Weasley clan nigh drowned out by the sonorous hum, and seeking peace in the kitchen garden out back.

His hand buried itself deeper in her hair, carding slowly through her thick tresses. The increasing weight of her hair was holding the mass down more effectively now, and the sleek curls she had cultivated in more recent memory had replaced the wild dervish fluffs that had taken over in the beginning. She was glad… it was so relaxing to have someone pet your hair. She could feel the tension between her shoulders melting away. As her body grew heavy and listed against his broad chest, her eyes weighted, she wondered vaguely at the simple drugging power of his touch.

She smiled slightly when she registered the low, satisfied hum Severus was making deep in his chest. She wondered absently if he noticed it. They were growing close… it was kind of him to let it happen, it let her hope that maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be some painful…shameful thing to be endured.

She was surprised sometimes how gentle he could be. How very softly he would touch her hand even when he was irritated, or after barking some thoughtlessly harsh remark. He was being careful with her, curbing his usually sharp tongue. She was glad, she could deal with small doses, but her shields weren't rebuilt enough to handle him going full out just yet…

She was getting there though. Most of his snide comments just kind of slid off while she interpreted what he actually meant to convey… which was good, especially when he'd melted more than one cauldron in a day.

…

"God Damn you WOMAN! Remove yourself this instant!"

Something bad is about to happen, I cannot keep both of us safe.

"Had you even the brain power of a concussed flubberworm you would perceive the foolhardiness of your suggestion."

Don't suggest such a thing. Not now, not ever. I refuse to consider it and am appalled that you would ask me to I try.

"Go inflict yourself on yourself, and not me."

I hurt people today. Hurt and killed them and I'm still thinking like the man who did those things. I cannot trust myself to be around you yet.

…

In a way, it was good, she had had to lock down on all emotional responses so… it was almost therapeutic for her to hear him rail against the madness, even if that meant he was taking out the bitterness on her.

That too was alright.

* * *

She had holed herself up in an enclosed corner of his garden. She was enjoying the grass and the sun, and letting the hundred or so bone pins absorb the sun and lie on the earth. One by one she picked them up and polished each to glassy smoothness with several grades of sand paper. It could be done by magic, but for spell implements… power flowed more… freely if it was not blocked by the remnants of other magic, and this way the bone would know the touch of her hands and hopefully carry her magic more readily… it was elk bone, elk was a very effective power conductor.

She worked mechanically. The repetitive action was soothing, and allowed her to think. It was a week until the full moon. Mentally she reviewed all that had been done and needed to be done.

Severus was still tinkering with the final details of his potions. Taking small samples of the main female potion he would make small changes. It had grown rather volatile and she stayed clear of the lab while he was busy. He didn't need to be concerned about burning bits of cauldron lighting her aflame. It was a hard enough making sure he wasn't blasted.

In accordance with the yin and yang set as a template in the prophecy the male potion was mostly a silvery black, and the female potion was currently translucent showing sparks of gold and red. She had contributed tears and hair to him for testing and so both potions were keyed to their partner draught.

The Runes had been finished in the last week.

She had mathematically mapped out exactly how many Ogham rune cycles she would need in each circle and had made out the symbols. She had been surprised when her arctic, blue fox ink had bonded to the elk vellum, and in an unexpected reaction with the elk, changed from matte black acquiring a blue-black obsidian sheen. It was a good sign. It boded well for the potency of the runes she had chosen.

She had gone out to the meadow they had chosen and spent a few nights with astrology charts calculating the point that would receive the most direct light from the full moon. The center of this space, was the origin of the central rune circle. From there she had plotted out the positions of the others, burning their outlines into the grass. She would scorch the marks again every day, so that they would be defined, come the full moon.

The only thing left was for them both to brew the clay that would make up the bodies of their 'offspring'. They had decided it would be proper to both have a hand in the brewing, but that the formation of the clay should be her domain… he'd argued, and she'd agreed that since a fetus would be formed in the female's body she should mold the 'bodies' they wished to give life.

Her time was drawing to a close. Soon they would need to sit down, and discuss exactly what would be done. In detail, they had prepared for the ritual, but had not… stated what the motions of this ritual would entail. They both understood what needed to be done, but had not yet spoken of it. If it went bad… she would need to know what was coming, it would keep her grounded in some sort of sanity.

Soon she would be out of time. Soon she would… soon he would…

She wiped at the drops of sweat rolling down her nose.

She had been deluding herself, these last months. Trying to believe it would be alright. But, torture had taught her exactly what her limits were. She knew herself, physically and mentally, inside and out. She knew what would push her too far. She always knew which blow would be her breaking point, what action would send her over the edge.

It would not matter if it were the love of her life, her soul mate, if he had courted her two years and not two months. She was not ready. The memories of that place were too fresh, barely scabbed over, and he would be scrabbling at the wall. Her wounds might never be healed enough for that.

But it was not her lover, and she did not want to do this to please him or fulfill his needs.

It was Severus… a man of honor, of surprising gentleness, a harsh man, a survivor, stained, but strong, like her, tough, made so by war. She cared for him, was concerned when he was summoned to Voldemort's side and hurt when he bled.

It was…complicated.

She trusted him when he told her he would be gentle with her. She had to… she wouldn't be able to go through with it otherwise.

The sun was only warm, but still the salty drops rolled intermittently down her nose.

God… it would be awful. If she lost herself… if she made Severus force her… he would never forgive himself. He would die a little more inside, just like when he had killed Dumbledore. She was already hurting enough for the both of them. She had already accepted this little death, and endured the execution of her… worth as a human. Had willfully destroyed the little pocket of peace she had found… again and again, several times a day, as she brought herself closer to the end. It would not end well for her. She knew that… if she survived… it wouldn't really be her, the scraps of a person that were left. What she wanted, was to do everything in her power to make sure there were more than scraps left of Snape… after all, who would hold her bits and pieces together if not him? Who would even remember how they were supposed to fit together?

Stubbornly, she finished polishing the bone pieces before lying back on the grass and letting the tears she had been holding in for the last month or more soak into the black earth.

She could see the ghostly outline of the moon, low on the horizon, in a sky so blue it hurt her eyes... it was nearly full… heralding by its very presence her end. It was coming and she would go.

Like a lamb to the slaughter.

It was for this she had survived, for this new pain she had endured torment unspeakable in civilized society. It was like birth, she told herself, yes, there was pain, but a fruitful pain, one that brought forth new and greater life.

It was a pale comfort.

* * *

He did not tell her, but the reason he had not completed the potions a week before, was because he had changed her draught slightly.

The binding magic of the potion seemed averse to melding with the peace he wanted to give her some measure of. He convinced himself it was different from drugging her. How exactly it was different he would be hard pressed to say, only that it was. He was not meshing the fertility magic with its complementary lust and passion. He would not take every dignity from her. He had no right to take that from her… date rape took on a whole new meaning when magic became involved… again it was a gut feeling that told him she would not forgive that manipulation. She prized above all else the ability to determine her own fate, and part in parcel with that was control over her mind and body, even if that control meant… what it would mean.

So, no potions to make her want this, only something to help her remain clearheaded, something to give her enough distance from the blood memories, so she could look at him and not scream.

The final solution was to balance the binding with very small, very potent amounts of harmonic ingredients, willow, jade, and dragonfly wings. The powdered jade and willow had been dusted onto the wings, and these administered to the translucent potion sending sparks of shimmering color throughout the brew. After another day of brewing the sparks had settled into a red gold scintillation.

Only six days until the first. He had cut it close. As he bottled both potions he was preparing his lab to formulate the clay that would form the bodies of the fallen.

Four 11 kg packages of purple ochre sat on one of the tables beside a vial of phoenix tears, sea water, and a sterilized knife sharp enough to split a strand of hair laid over the cutting edge.

Soon he would have to hunt Hermione up from the library, but, as if he had called, she appeared in the door, studying the brown paper packages. Unbidden she began to unwrap the clay. Taking a lab knife she began cubing the lavender to violet substance. The only way to uniformly disseminate their blood into the mixture would be to create a clay soup. The sea water would encourage life to take root in the inanimate figures.

Finishing his task he set the two flasks, one clear, the other black, side by side into a dark cupboard away from light which might alter the contents. More sat in cauldrons, simmering off to the side of the lab.

He took a knife of his own and began helping her prepare the clay.

Once all the clay had been uniformly cut, and they had poured perhaps a six liters of sea water over it, she looked doubtfully at him, "That is not going to dissolve by stirring it with a wand… it'll snap."

"Hn…" stoking the flames beneath the pot he went to his closet returning with an iron wood staff. It was nigh impenetrable to any spell work and left very little imprint upon the working… it was too tough for that.

After perhaps thirty minutes of heat and some much needed agitation with the stave, they had a liquid about the consistency of quicksand, the vial of phoenix tears went into the lavender mixture turning it dark, the color of iris throats.

Taking the razor sharp knife he motioned for her to turn around and carefully snicked a curl of dark golden hair. She returned the favor and taking both strands of hair she twisted them together. The plait was tied off with a strand of unicorn hair.

This sunk into the mixture, which released a small plume of steam, and darkened a shade further.

She was watching the brew with satisfaction, and he knew she was just as pleased as he that this final step of their work was progressing smoothly, if it accepted their hair, the chances of it accepting blood rose significantly.

As he had taught her she gave herself a shallow cut across the back of her forearm, it was safe there, plenty of leeway in which you could gouge no major veins or arteries. Her blood welled over the pale skin with startling quickness and as her blood flowed into the plain stone bowl on the table he was already at her side staunching the bleeding. She was not of a weight to be able to spare any more blood than absolutely necessary.

Irritated by her lack of caution he bit out, "A mite over exuberant are we?"

She shrugged, immune, now, to most of his barbs, "I can't feel it, the blade was sharper than I expected."

He sighed and once he had healed her cut he slid the blade over his own forearm. It was, as she said, razor sharp, barely stung, like a paper cut, and his blood welled much more moderately slipping into the bowl, no more than a few tablespoons worth combined.

He healed his arm quickly, before stirring the blood fusion once clockwise and once counterclockwise.

A quick shield charm went up, before she lifted the bowl and poured its contents into the cauldron.

Neither was quite prepared for the brilliant flash of light as thick steam billowed from the cauldron smelling strongly of sea breezes, dark rich earth after the rain…life, but not… it was the promise of life, if that had a scent.

Blinking rapidly to regain her vision Hermione gave a nervous chuckle, "That's a good sign, I was sure it was going to blow with the light. How long will it take before it's of a consistency to mold?"

He bent over the brew, the color of a midnight sky, black, but looking deeply…purple, "By evening at the earliest."

She nodded, "We are agreed then? To make doubly sure each mind ends up in the right place, instead of fifteen identical dolls, we incorporate something of that person into the heart of their doll? The fur of a silver tabby for McGonagall, a phoenix feather for Dumbledore—"

Snape grumbled at this, "A chess piece would be more appropriate."

She frowned, out of reflex, not any real displeasure, "We aren't giving him a heart of Bertie Botts or lemon drops either."

"It's apt,"

"Now's not the time to get our petty vengeance," she insisted in typical Gryffindor fashion, adding on, "You can give him a good once over once he's not dead."

He smirked bitterly, "Even I know I cannot berate the man… not seeing as I killed him."

She shrugged immune to his remarks, "Well, I can, this plan is bloody awful. I'd honestly prefer being the sacrificed horcrux—" she froze.

She'd said more than she intended and shot a sidelong look at Snape trying to gauge his reaction.

He looked like he'd swallowed something both bitter and slimy, "I was not aware…you knew," he ground out slowly.

She grimaced slightly rubbing a hand, tinted lavender, over her eyes, putting a smear of color above her left brow, "There was no other way he'd be able to sense the horcruxes like he could… but he didn't realize and I couldn't bear to tell him."

Snape closed his eyes, looking exhausted and grim, "Dumbledore thought it was best—"

"Keeping him in the dark like he did to you and I?" she deadpanned.

Yes.

Neither said it. There was no need.

She frowned darkly and plowed forward, undeterred from her goal, "I want an herb for Neville…gillyweed? **_Mimbulus mimbletonia_**? He loved that cactus his uncle sent him,"

"Go with the cactus… it is more fitting for Longbottom," he advised.

"Then, for Luna, swallowtail wings and an eagle feather. Harry will get... I wish I had something he had made or something he'd enchanted…"

"Would there be anything left at the school?"

She shook her head and then paused, "No… well there might… in the room of requirement, I left my purse there before the battle… It has…" she screwed her eyes shut trying to recall that time, "his invisibility cloak, the snitch Dumbledore gave him, some books…you know, I might be able to find some hair of his…His wand! His broken wand is there!"

Severus stared at her, "He had no wand, and he wanted to face Voldemort?"

Hermione shook her head waving off yet another of Harry's reckless stupidities, "A stolen one, didn't work as well as his. I accidentally broke his, escaping from Godric's Hollow, but he wanted to keep it… Can you get into the room of requirement? Sirius's two-way mirror is there, and the Marauder's map."

Severus nodded, "If this is not a dire need…" he didn't know what was.

She smiled, "Then, for Sirius, black wolfhound hair. Now… the Weasley's… I think a basilisk scale for Ginny… it's terrible, but that truly marked her, she wasn't the same girl after. For Ron… maybe … a knight from wizard's chess. Do you think Filch still has any of the Weasley Wizard Wheezes he confiscated? Having a bit of their own magic would draw Fred and George nicely. Fur from a werewolf for Bill…"

"I can get Greyback's," Snape volunteered, it would be simple enough to pull rank and his work as a potioneer to get hold of some. At times his work in the dark arts for his lord was highly advantageous. He could acquire, literally any material, no matter how dangerous or suspect, and none would question his actions.

Hermione nodded, "Yes, that would be good, and of course a veela hair for Fleur. A dragon scale for Charlie, something muggle for Arthur… can you get a hold of something? He rather liked anything that was an appliance. "

Snape raised a brow, "Are you envisioning something like a toaster?"

Hermione rolled her eyes half shocked he knew what a toaster was, "I was envisioning something like a small penlight or a spark plug."

Snape nodded.

"Then maroon yarn for Molly and… that should do it." She was nodding to herself her hands twitching, she wanted to be doing, not standing around and talking…not thinking.

Her jaw was working clenching tight and releasing, taunt and then lax.

He reached out and swiped the lavender smear from her temple, "There is nothing more to do right now. I can have the final items for you by tomorrow, the day after at the latest… there is nothing more."

"Why do you do that?"

He frowned at her, for once confused by the turn the conversation had taken, he blurted a rather unintelligent, "What?"

"That. You touch me, casually," She motioned vaguely with one hand, using it to put distance between them, "I understand now, I do, and thank you… I think it would be harder for me if I didn't know that you…don't mean harm. But what I don't understand is why you did it even in the beginning. You have never been simply businesslike towards me."

Stepping back to give her space, he tried to find words to explain himself. He'd been caught rather flat footed. He had never expected to have to answer that question, not aloud, not to her, not to anyone, preferably not even to himself. But she had called him on it.

"I do not, did not… think of you in any way inappropriate," he managed to cobble together.

"Inappropriate to whom? My torturer?" It was a barb, meant to sting, but not draw blood, the nudge of a spur, encouragement.

"No," he gritted out, "As your…" he fumbled, what was he to her? "I am a man not an animal. You were wounded and broken, and before that you were a child. I did not act out of lust."

She shook her head, "I'm sorry, negation is not answer enough for me, not now, not when… I need to know." Not a demand, just the truth... she needed him to explain it to her… couldn't deal with the uncertainty.

"Could you believe I acted out of some lingering human kindness?" He began, but seeing her skepticism continued, "No, I do not begin to claim altruism, only that my manipulation was well intentioned. When I found you… you were barely functioning, as a human being. I needed you first rational. I acted as I did, because I knew it would wake you up, just like your name. With your name returned to you, you were rational. But just rational, you were still willing to try to run. If we had remained polite strangers, you would have tried to escape, failed, and I would have had to kill you, sooner or later. I needed you to trust me. So I treated you as I would…" He struggled for the word, "a daughter. I thought of you as a ward. No more, no less."

'And now?' it was on her tongue but she did not say it, could not, but she tried.

"I…" her frown deepened, "That is, we need to…"

She turned on heel suddenly, walking away. Instinctively, he followed reaching out to touch her shoulder, only to have her shy almost violently.

"Hermione—"

"Not now, I'm sorry… give me an hour." And then she was gone, all but apparating out the room. He heard the muffled slam of a door and knew she had fled to the gardens.

She never felt quite at ease indoors. On some level he understood. It was a base instinctive thing… as civilization degenerated under the dark lord… so too did the men and women living in it. Like any predator, this was his territory, his home, his lab, his bedroom... all of these things were intrinsically masculine, sitting room and the library was the closest there was to neutral ground but even so… the indoors had a confining stricture to them. She had spent four years in an underground cell, trapped, caged…defeated. The outside was life and light and freedom, or as much as she was likely to see for a long time.

* * *

Happy Memorial Day! I hope it finds you well and in a charitable mood (alms, alms to the poor hungry muse, just a review marm… its been weeks since my last.)

Much love to all of course, and I hope you can bear with my excessive angst… I fear it doesn't look to be lightening up for some time.


	21. Chapter 21 - Eyes Wide Open

Ch 21

Eyes Wide Open

He found her, perhaps two hours later. She was sitting, almost completely concealed up under the trailing, tangled lengths of a low growing willow. The tree was old, very old, and there was no longer any cavity beneath its bowed leaves. She had shoved aside twisted, interwoven limbs and now sat her back supported by the springy supple cords.

She gave him a quiet nod, and he lowered himself beside her their shoulders brushing when either shifted.

"Do you want to discuss it? We can let it lie, if you wish," he watched her from the corner of his eye.

She pressed even, white teeth to her lower lip, "I think… for my sanity I need things to be ordered and planned. Uncertainty leaves room for fear."

He nodded. This was a better place to speak. He had the advantage of the discussion. It was only right that they be in 'her' territory.

He began slowly with the easy things, the things she knew better than he, "You at the least must enter the rune circles utterly pure. You should not wear anything into the meadow. I will mark you in oil, forehead, palms," he touched a point the center of his torso, just over the body of the sternum, "and chest. You will do the same for me in ash."

She looked away then, but he studied her profile with a measuring air.

"I would like to treat you as a lover…but if that will make it harder for you…set me my limits now. Give me a desist word. I swear to you I will stop if it is too much."

She did not look at him, but gave a minute shake of her head in the negative, "I give you my permission now, no matter what I do or say, you will go through with it. I beg you… I will not be able to face this again, do not make me… just finish it. Don't give me the choice… I will choose wrong."

He was silent, and in the silence his answer rang, _**no**_.

She turned dark troubled eyes to him, "Please. Please Severus… I… I will not blame you. I do not blame you. If I slip the bounds of rationality, I need you to make the right decision. I have chosen this. I want to do it… If I tell you no, I… don't mean it."

His brow was furrowed deeply, "You should not trust me so far as that."

"But I do. Further than that… I have to."

He was very still considering her words with the degree of attention they warranted, "Set out your limits and I give you a promise of my own. If I must force you I will touch you in no way that is not wholly necessary."

She bowed her head slightly in unspoken thanks. Then she was quiet considering her terms, or trying to find a way to speak them aloud. She curled her legs into her chest and wrapped her arms around them resting her chin between the boney tops as she stared out over the little enclosed garden.

It was very green here, and alive with little noises, the rustlings of insects, the rush and flutter of bird wings, the occasional plop splash of some small salamander or frog, the creak and groan of the old basket willow's wood as it grew warm and pliable in the sun. The willow was bowled over a small pool, more of a low spot in the path of a quick run of water, not quite a pond, that supported such an effusion of life it was hard to see the water at all, arrowhead and white lotus formed a nigh impenetrable mat of life with water hemlock, watercress, bulrush, water lilies, marshmallow, and along the borders a few marsh roses that released their strong musky scent into the air. Up on the damp banks, under the shade of the other plants grew hornwort spreading it's flat, crinkled leaves over the ground warring with thick moss and lichen for space.

This was a good place, a safe place.

She started slightly when he reached out and gathered her into his arms, laying his longer arms over hers, resting his warm chest against the sinuous curve of her spine. He was dressed lighter than was his norm she noted. The frockcoat had been abandoned in favor of black slacks and a hunter green dress shirt, the cuffs rolled up to his elbows revealing, pale, but well muscled forearms. She would not have suspected he owned muggle clothing, given his penchant for traditional robes… but she supposed it might be an unspoken school tradition rather than any aversion of his own.

"Speak to me, please Hermione. Tell me how to make this easier for you."

"I will… a moment…please."

Where his left arm pressed against hers she could see the outer curve of the baleful mark. It should look or feel different from the rest of his skin. It was a thing of evil. She should be bothered by its lying on her skin. He was usually very careful to keep it hidden from her. Wiggling her hand free she brushed careful fingers over the jet mark feeling the wrongness of it, the dark magic that resided there waiting for its master's call. The mark had not faded in the slightest over the last twenty years. It was surprising… and somewhat frightening to see the old mark as fresh as if it had been made yesterday. He had tensed when she touched it, but allowed her to turn his arm viewing the whole of it.

"It's not in a particularly easy place to conceal," she commented.

"It is not intended to be concealed. In the beginning… it was a sign of loyalty… of one's desire to be able to bare the master's mark to the world."

"You still cover it, why? The others do not."

"I am considered strange for doing so… but none would dare to reprimand me save the Dark Lord. He believes I do so to increase the persona of menace I have cultivated."

"Why?" she persisted.

He chuckled darkly, "Because it is my shame. I was fated to bring death to those around me from the moment I took the mark. I could have gone back at any time until then."

"It looks fresh."

"Blood and dark magic does not fade."

Enough delay. His silence was expectant. She felt more secure, now that he could not see her face, or any internal terror that might show itself there, so she began to speak.

"Please do not put your teeth to my skin."

Too many have bitten to draw blood. Too many marked me like some beast's bitch.

"Unless you must, don't hold my hands or wrists down."

I've had them broken that way before. It's so easy… they never tell you how simple it is to crack bone.

"No love marks,"

I don't need physical reminders of my shame. It hurts, it's wrong… I am not yours, treat me with honor, not false ardor, or misplaced propriety.

He felt so warm and solid against her back, he was like a second, small, dark sun, mirroring the golden ropes soaking into her hair, and face, and front. She wanted to soak in as much of either heat as possible so she uncurled her legs, letting her hands fall to her stomach and his hands to follow, large palms still pressed to the backs of hers, making her feel small… but not in a bad way.

"Is that all you bar, or only what you can bring yourself to speak aloud?" he mused after she had been quiet awhile.

Her felt her shrug, "I trust you not to do anything shameful."

"No, I will not defile you," the statement seemed hollow, but perhaps it was because they both knew the whole business was shameful. Or rather that civilized society would think it so. However, what they would do was, in a way, consecrated… made…sacred, by the joining of their wills, with ancient magic, and need. So the act itself was not shameful, but his actions might be.

Carefully, aware of the knife edge he walked he continued, "But what you consider shameful, and I do, may not coincide," He curled his fingers around her hands, "For example, if I were to release your hands and slide my palms up," he did not do so nor intend to, but felt her turn her wrists, her slender fingers twining with his, hoping to hamper him from acting on his words, her grip tight enough to cause him pain.

He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb until her grip relaxed, "I won't, Hermione, it's alright. But you see, you find the thought of that threatening, I would only do so to bring you pleasure."

She had grown tense in his arms, but at his words relaxed again, "Sorry, you startled me, I'll be ok when…"

"You'll manage," he corrected, "Grit your teeth and bear it…However, I want you to know now, I do nothing with the intent to harm, or shame you. Are you sure there is nothing else?"

She was silent, not even shifting in his arms. He thought she would remain quiet.

"Do what you will to assuage your own conscience, but don't force me to enjoy it. It's the worst feeling in the world to have your own body betray you," her voice caught slightly, and came out harsh and low, "_That_ is true shame, and _that_ I will not forgive."

He tightened his arms, his embrace almost crushing, but a welcome pressure. He wished fleetingly he had killed the loathsome worm that had done this to her more slowly, really let him scream, till his voice broke, till he no longer knew why he was screaming. Was it not enough to take a woman's body? To also turn the poisonous hatred inward, with the pathetic, but destructive words, "You seemed to enjoy it, bitch." Such beasts were destined for a level of hell below even the one awaiting him. Only malicious fools thinking to mitigate their own guilt and monsters would touch an unwilling woman in that way.

"No… no, I will not do that to you. I have never played those kinds of sick games. There's no honor in that, and I will treat you with honor. I only ask your leave to cause you no pain. I swear to you that is all I desire."

She shuddered slightly in his grip, keeping her face hidden from him, "Severus…I can handle a little pain. I would prefer it, actually." She admitted half unwillingly, forcing a weak laugh from between bloodless lips, "Don't burden yourself trying to make my experience…better. You won't. I don't want or need it. I know you won't really hurt me. I'll barely register any discomfort. I'm no fainting virgin."

* * *

Pure shock kept him silent a moment, then violent homicidal rage two. That she had been hurt, had her mind and body torqued and twisted, until she honestly feared being hurt less than she feared someone being gentle with her... Then he understood. If he hurt her she would not risk losing her iron control. It was not masochism talking. She did not want to feel pain. She had been tortured. What was one more rape? She simply found it a more palatable evil than if he 'loved' her, broke down her defenses, and then when she was weak, and scared, forced to submit to his hand, molded her as he liked. It was a valid fear, she'd had it done to her before… he might not even intend to, but a misstep, or word, when she was utterly at his mercy. It would be enough.

When he finally managed to force his voice past his lips, sure that he would not frighten her with the fury, his voice sounded low, unnaturally gruff, "Hermione, if a woman feels pain during intercourse. It is her body telling her something is breaking. I understand that you CAN grit your teeth and bear it through. I even understand, just a little, how such a thing might be preferable to you. You've had much more experience controlling your reactions to pain. But when something hurts, you naturally harden yourself to it. Yes, I know how good you are at relaxing, however you cannot consciously control smooth muscle, your body will tighten against the invasion, which will lead to more damage."

She made a non-committal noise in the back of her throat. He forged ahead, unsure if he could bear it if she tried to bargain with him, over this. Over the amount of damage that constituted violent rape.

"It's not my conscience I'm trying to assuage. I know that what I am doing, regardless of your permission, regardless of my physical conduct in regards to the actual act, is unpardonable coercion. I know that. Do not think I have deluded myself for an instant. I want your permission, to treat you as I would a lover, because by its nature to treat this as little more than a business transaction will damage your body, and not just a little. It would not be because I would be rough with you, but because your body would not be ready. "

His words scared her, he wasn't a fool. He knew it. God damn him for it. His words destroyed any hope she might have harbored of something quick. Over and done, it might hurt a bit. It might hurt a lot, but it would be over and that was all she needed, then she could go, hide and nurse her wounds. He released her from his embrace, so that she could gain some distance if she needed it. She did not move, seemed frozen. The thing was growing so near. There seemed no escaping, he had had to tell her, God above, she had been preparing herself to endure what she envisioned as his groping at her so he could banish his own guilt. Worse, she'd been willing to endure it if that was what it took to enable him, _HIM_, to go through with it.

If he'd thought she could endure the repercussions he quite willingly would have drugged her. Gods damn his conscience, honor, what have you. No matter what he chose, he would be raping her, at least let her not remember it, not clearly. Nothing violent, or harmful, just a mild muscle relaxant. Something, so if she did fight him… he could subdue her without harming her, and take her without making her bleed. In a perfect world something that would take the edge off the fear, something to dull the blood memories… Merlin, a few strong pulls of fire whiskey would do the trick, small as she was.

"I-i…I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply…" she stuttered out.

"I know."

"I honestly don't know if I can—" She turned to him, her eyes wide, fearful, afraid of him, it, he did not know.

"I know. I'm only asking for you to try."

He watched her nod slowly and drop her eyes, "I'll try… but promise me…"

"That is one thing you need not fear. I know the difference between what is necessary, and what is not."

It was a thin line he was asking her to walk, between physical and emotional abuse… Why must it be either? It seemed impossible that he would not step over into one or the other—both. And in this act it would not just be the pain, which she would prefer… and he quite honestly agreed, knew she would be able to recover from more quickly. This was not torture, torture was a kindness by comparison, no he was shredding through every coping measure she held to, and yet honor still bade him push her further still. Could they find a midline?

She nodded. Then, unable to continue she diverted, "Should I cast a contraceptive spell, before?"

He shook his head, "I will give you a potion after, I don't know how the spell will interact with the rest of the working. Besides that, without a wand it tires you too much, I don't want you casting spells from now till the first… you can't be drained."

"I don't know how…stable I'll be after…" she admitted candidly.

"With a potion you have a week long window. If we succeed it won't be me administering it."

Neither of them wanted to consider what would need to be done if they did not succeed. She would need to be marked, truly marked as his. He could not keep her hidden, locked up on his estate forever. She would be safest marked.

Or so he convinced himself.

* * *

The next day, Hermione felt very calm. Discussing it had settled her in a way she had not predicted. She felt more assured now of her decision to trust him.

Severus was a man who lied by omission, when it was suitable to his purposes, if the words could be forced from him, they were truths. To her at the least… they had always been truths.

Between that, and once more having something to occupy her hands with she was almost mellow.

She was currently working with a scale, and knew the exact weight she had to make each doll to approximate the necessary mass for each individual. She gave herself a half kilogram excess to account for any water evaporation that might take place in the time it took her to form the figure and Severus to cast a stasis charm.

He was right, while she might manage fifteen stasis charms, but by the end she would be completely exhausted. Without a conductor, even though she had great control, could bring a good deal of power to bear, it was such an exhausting process to access that power, she was down and out for the next day.

She worked on those she had materials for. Severus had a surprising number of the items in his stores. She worked on Luna and Neville's first. Cutting about an inch thick slice of dried **_Mimbulus mimbletonia _**she weighed out 2.7 kg of clay, carefully she coated the slice in the dark clay. It was thick and smooth and rich, it reminded her of blackly fertile earth after the rain.

The heart piece was roughly the size of her palm and around this she constructed a roughly humanoid figure.

The core of Luna's was smaller, more narrow, but so too was her doll, short and willowy, only 1.5 kg. She set them side by side on another lab table above a little parchment marker labeled NL & LL.

Severus had not yet returned so she only made Sirius's figure, not so tall as Dumbledore's but broader in the limbs and chest. She thought for a moment to create a black hound figurine, but decided against it. An animagus was a witch or wizard's true inner form, she could not risk trapping him in it. The wolfhound hair was enough of a reminder. She laid the figure, about the length of her forearm, near the other two with the label SB & _ leaving room for Harry's initials once it was made.

Then came Dumbledore and Minerva. She twisted the soft, silvery tabby fur into something of a cord. Then she rolled this rough yarn into a ball and it became the center of a tall, thin figure, distinctly female in its slenderness. The phoenix feather too became the heart of a slightly taller, though less slim figure, something masculine about it that was absent in the first. These joined the others under the label AD & MM.

She started with Ginny, and tried not to think too hard about why Severus had so many potent poisons in his stores. It was not venom, true, but he probably had that too stored somewhere. She had decided that the girl should not be wholly defined by a childhood mistake, and so coiled a twisted cord made of lion's fur around the thin sliver of basilisk scale. This figure was even smaller than Luna's but less willowy. Then Ron, a black knight stolen from a dusty board Severus had unearthed from the Headmaster's office in Hogwarts. Charlie's was simple enough, dragon scales were not so hard to come by, though she had spent a good while deciding on a species. Fleur, was also distinctly feminine, with generous curves and a veela hair center. And so down the list, she would need to wait for Severus to return to attempt Molly, Arthur, the Twins, Bill, and Harry.

* * *

The last four days passed agonizingly slowly. Snape couldn't help but be influenced by her palpable tension. Whenever he saw her looking particularly pale he would touch her cheek, or her shoulder, or her golden brown hair. Anything to make her relax for an instant, she was like a bow drawn taut by the archer, pressure, and power, and tension bound up in her frame.

She was by turns pale and still as a dove, then more brightly burning with life and energy, pure magic than a phoenix. She was the green lady of spring, a goldenly ripe Indian summer field, the vine heavy with fruit… she was as much a part of their spell as the rune circles and as the time drew near she grew laden with the same natural, elemental power that seemed to grow with the moon, slow, but reaching the high tide.

He had to touch her, to hold her occasionally, and remind himself she was as human as he. She seemed all at once terribly near to breaking with the forces roiling within, and nigh bursting with their power and strength. She was a creature of terrible beauty, of joyful tragedy, a harmonic paradox.

* * *

She no longer started when she felt his hand at the small of her back or the warmth of him up along her side. It was comfortable… the intimacy of his touch was not gone, but the warning in it was. It was warm, and gentle, and as he had told her, meant only to comfort.

So she accepted it, and sometimes could bring herself to reciprocate, squeezing his hand when he entwined their fingers, placing careful hands on his arms when he embraced her. He tempered himself for her, not once in direct contact with her did he direct his usual cutting barbs in her direction. He was trying very hard to put a few… at least neutral memories of intimacy, if nothing would make this positive… so maybe, just maybe she wouldn't have only awful associations to make when it came time.

Sometimes he would sit with her for half an hour or more, saying nothing, just holding her hand, or an arm around her waist while he or she read. Sometimes, putting aside whatever prop he held to touch her face his touch lighter than the whisper of a bird's wing. But his silence was not all peace, no it was partly pain, his, the strain of silencing the spew of vitriolic self-loathing that was so much a part of his existence she did not know if even he recognized that it was not him, just his coping method for madness. Every soft touch he pressed to her compliant skin, he hated himself for, and yes, her, a little, for complying… he wanted her to scream, NO, no, _**NO**_, to bite and fight and scratch, anything but accept her fate, anything but that.

He found her in the sitting room, quietly contemplating the empty space before her. He settled beside her and gently touched her cheek. Tomorrow evening was the night of the full moon. At his interruption she turned eyes wide and bright as burnished copper, deep as amber pools, onto him. They were fever bright, her whole being thrumming in time with the inner fires which had grown steadily within her to this fevered pitch.

Since she had turned her face to him he took advantage and cupped her face in is palm, she felt only warm despite burning eyes.

"Such a pale and solemn bride on the eve before her wedding."

The words might have seemed cruel, but to them, it was comfortable… it was coping. No it was not releasing the dam, his hate, her fear, but it was acknowledging it, it was letting her know he understood.

Her lips twitched as if to smile and she reached up and touched his cheek, "A perfect partner to my grim groom."

"What are you thinking of to make you so still?"

"The future," her lips moved beneath his fingertips and he skated his touch up stroking each eyelid.

"We are at the tipping point. I can feel it as well as you. A crossroad…a node of power, which path do you contemplate?" he mused, tasting both answers in the air of her silence.

But she elaborated, perhaps she needed the companionship tonight, her lips curved gently to smile, "I have not the fortitude to think overmuch of failure. I am simply wondering what the consequences of… you said it best, our nuptials will be."

Her eyes were closed so he could not gauge fear or uncertainty in her bright soul, "I think," he began gently, "that some kind of permanent binding can be expected."

She inclined her head slightly, he told her nothing she had not known long before he, "And what then will be my life?"

"Your life will be your own, as much as it can be."

Her eyes flickered open, flames to light the dark of his soul and read his intention there, "Fine words to say now. What will you do when I have been bound up in your magic, and everything in your mind and body, insists that I belong to you?"

He pulled back from her, more unsettled than he liked to admit by the sharpness of her gaze, but she held him, one hand pressing his hand to her cheek, other hand settling below his jaw drawing him back. She drew him close pulling her legs beneath her so they were eye to eye and she could see every flickering change of his visage.

"Will I be a pale waif in your shadow? A symbol of shame you try so hard to ignore? Will I be another dark mark that you hide away so no one knows what you did?" each accusation burrowed deeper than the last, each hitting closer and closer to home, though not in the way she thought.

His first reaction was a thinning of the lips, anger, but he suppressed it, and his hand on her face remained gentle. Now was not the time for harsh words.

Despite the fear.

How he feared that tied to him, eternally bound, she would lose herself to his darkness, fall ill, and pale, and silent, lose her light. He would try to cut her loose from him, give her a life apart, and try his best to ignore that her leaving might pain him. Or perhaps he would fail in that, and make her his, hiding her away, so only he could see her. He had ever been a possessive man. He feared what his natural inclinations might become… fueled by a binding spell, he might very well do something unforgivable… he understood, perhaps more vividly than she how integrally such magic would affect him.

He who so loved power, even now, always, because he was Slytherin. Not a sin, surely, but it could be, yes, yes it could be.

"I will let you go. If it is in my power, you will go free."

"Of course, honor before all else. What then if it is not in your power. What if for once you are as helpless as I in determining your fate?"

His hands were frozen and still on her face, but hers were not. She had taken control of something unnamed and now her small hands familiarized themselves with the planes of his features, the deep creases, of a nigh perpetual grimace now banished, his strong square jaw, the light calluses on fingertips and palms catching on invisible stubble, his nose broken once or twice in youth and war, spelled straight, but nimble fingers found the ossified ridges.

"In five years, in ten, will you detest me? You only bear tolerate me now, because I am small, and broken, and pitiable. What will you do when I am not? When I am the know-it-all chit you hated to teach back then, for if we live, eventually I will heal. I am not a soft, pliable woman. You know this…I am rash, and easily moved to anger, I am sharp, vengeful, and harsh. I'm not even fully sane. I have become just as cruel as you."

An insult he barely registered, "I do not pity you... I would have to consider myself somehow in higher standing to feel so."

Then hardened habits caught up to him and he felt his throat close around the words, his eyes hardening.

"No!" her outburst startled him, forcing him to look at her, really look at her, "no," more quietly, "Not tonight, you cannot close me out tonight. Please, tonight, I cannot play this game."

Slowly he nodded in understanding. Tonight it was his turn to strip, a premeditated penitence for his actions tomorrow.

His gaze then drifted beyond her, to a time when she was indeed a precocious, overeager child, "I will not lie to you and say it was all artifice, but as an acknowledged death eater what better way to assure the world of my allegiance but with a well timed prejudice against all things Gryffindor and downright neopotism towards Slytherin… and in the first five minutes you made yourself the most obvious target. It was nothing more than my impersonal calculation that you would endure it better than, say Longbottom."

Hermione, quirked a brow, "You'll forgive me if I point out that being harsh about my potions is one thing, it was quite another to mock my buckteeth in third year, as if you're one to point the finger."

He grimaced slightly, "I'll allow that it got a tad more personal, after a bit. You and Potter and Weasley, I did detest you. But not for the reason you believe. What I detested…Hated, was seeing children playing war games, whilst Dumbledore watched and did nothing. What I hated was being run in circles by the decrepit despot while he dropped peace time innocents into harm's way, a twinkle in his eye. Unforseen, tragic, he said, but it wasn't. It was a game, training."

"And this equated to actively harassing us?"

"Yes, you were part of the problem, you helped and taught and dragged Dumbldore's chosen one through whatever test he'd stumbled upon. With you they thought they were invincible. You thought so too. It was the youth. It was the success. It was the point. How else do you get a boy to willingly duel the most powerful dark wizard of the age, a man who has dedicated half a century to the art of killing, to the pursuit of power. Dumbledore was teaching his weapons to charge. He was teaching Potter that the light triumphs, always, and you ensured the lessons continued without a hitch. You, Gryffindor though you are, would not have jumped for Dumbledore's bait, but you had to jump for Potter, for Weasley, when they were hanging off a cliff by their fingernails."

"You do realize your attempts to prove books didn't have all the answers, and that I was just an infantile child with all the understanding of a Cornish pixie only cemented my determination to prove you wrong."

He almost sheepish and it was a strange expression on his face, "I suppose, the years have caused me forget my own foolhardy youth. You know I once bribed a professor? It could be argued that I would have been better off curbed early, bridled to mundane pursuits."

She blanched, "I wouldn't have—"

"I said that too. I was once young and brilliant, yes, and I knew it. Anything I put my hand to I excelled at. Let me only say it is good that you had a bit more of the Gryffindor moral grounding than I. Perhaps in that Dumbledore was right to always give you a purpose, an outlet for your talents. I found outlets for myself, and there was no guidance, no one to tell me to stop, I'd gone too far, until it was far too late. It does not start with a dark mark… It starts with protecting someone… and going too far. The label comes later, after it's become true."

Her eyes were wide with surprise, shocked that Snape of all people was… sharing… letting her see where he was most vulnerable. Yes, she had demanded his recompense, but that he actually was willing...

"Is there ever too far?" Hermione asked, her breath mingling with his, so close had they unconsciously drawn.

"Four years ago you would have thought so, and perhaps twenty years ago I would have agreed. But given our current path, no, no there is not. But I swear to God I wanted your generation to think so. Back then you were just an eager little thing, a waving hand. I could see your need, no obsession, to know everything, to do it better and faster than anyone else could… and I saw in strength of that determination, a strange mirror of myself. My mentors let me run free, just handed me the books I asked for, without the preface, without the grounding that age gives. If they warned me, it was of exploding cauldrons, not what might crawl out of said receptacle when I was successful. It is so very easy to go too far, wouldn't you agree?"

Solemnly she nodded, "Will it be worth it? When we take that leap and there's no backing out?"

"Would it help you if I told you I…"

Hermione's lips quirked in a sneer to rival one of his own, "Love? Please do not insult me, not tonight."

"No, listen, for a moment, I care for you, and respect you…"

She tipped her head to the side, her fingertips tangling in the ends of his hair, confusion flickering in bright coppery eyes, "Why?"

"You are strong. I have always respected strength, which you have in spades. You've endured and accomplished more in twenty years than most can boast of in a lifetime. You are brave, but not foolhardy. You shun no responsibility, no matter how hard. Few are living in this madness as well as you."

'_You are a stunning, beautiful woman. You are an intellect to rival my own, a spark of genius. What I might have been without this mark upon my arm, upon my soul. You appear as bright and noble and excellent as you truly are,'_ but he did not say these words aloud, they revealed his hand too much.

For he could ask her the same questions she now posed. But he would not voice them, for right now, she needed to feel in control. He would take this feeling from her tomorrow, for now she deserved to hold the reins in their uneven balance of power.

She nodded quietly and released his face coming to her feet in one fluid motion. He rose with her. Her face was hard, and set, she seemed to be considering something. Then it cleared, as if, having determined her fate, she could now accept it. Having reached some understanding with herself she turned to face him extending her hand.

When he clasped it firmly, as a soldier will greet another, something similar to a smile touched her lips. He supposed it was a grin, one of grim determination and ironic acknowledgement of their fate. He wondered if she grinned to hide trembling or if she was determined to face all fates with a smirk. She'd proved her mettle against worse than this, and her grin to gall her tormentors said it all. Her next words settled the question.

She grinned wider still, "Churchill said it best. 'War is a game that is played with a smile. If you can't smile, grin. If you can't grin, keep out of the way 'til you can.' Thank you for keeping me out of the way."

It was a simple pact. She vowed, 'I will be strong now. No more uncertainty, no more trembling and fear. I have been strong and can do it again. No blame is between us two, this is a duty and we will fulfill it.'

He inclined his head in acceptance of their agreement and released her hand.

* * *

The end is getting very near, my dear readers, very near indeed. I've been suffering from a hideous bout of flu, and thus the creative juices have been flowing freely. That, and I've been bored out of my skull, the only thing to do has been write.

To my reviewers thank you, I am trying hard to do justice to the coming chapters and it is so very difficult to pin down every detail in my head just so. Really wishing I had someone to bounce ideas off of, so in that light, if there's anyone with experience writing…erm… porn with plot? Is that what it is? I guess so, oh well. If you have, and you'd like to provide criticism for my first attempt, well I'd be eternally grateful, PM me or something and we can talk.


	22. Chapter 22 - Free Fall

Ch 22

Free Fall

Hermione would not have admitted to consciously avoiding him. But they both needed the time, to gain some distance, some control, so she did not see hide nor hair of Severus till four in the afternoon when he found her in the meadow burning sage.

She was halfway through sweeping the entire area of the rune circles and was glad when he waited at the tree line for her to work her methodical way to him she did not want to have to redo any work. He practically reeked of magic and remnant spell work which clung to his clothing, the fumes of countless potions a nigh permanent part of his being. She circled him a few times covering him in a fog of blue gray smoke till it had replaced the ghosts of spells that hung on his frame.

"You can't wear these clothes this evening. Too much magic has been worked in them," she frowned, "Do you have something I can use too?"

He nodded, he had already washed a pair of black slacks and a shirt in a sage and thyme infusion, an extra dress shirt would be simple enough to cleanse.

Despite the breeze which carried the smoke away from them. The sweet smell of sage was all bound up, deep and smoky, in her clothes and hair and skin. It was a cleansing ritual. It would ensure no residual magic or taint lay in the area they would work their spell.

His eyes cast out over the field. She had already carefully affixed her runes with the bone pins. He cast a large containment charm in something of a bubble over the field. Despite the heavy warding on his home they could not afford any leaking magic to give them away.

"The sun sets at 5:53 today. We have two hours. If you can you should rest," he advised as clinically as possible.

It was unclear how long it would take to transfigure clay into flesh, their best efforts with arithmancy to predict the time necessary had achieved numbers varying from seven minutes to a fortnight.

She nodded her head, and willingly followed him back through the stand of mixed oak, alder, aspen, and pine, through the maze of hedges and gates that made up the cultivated area of his estate. They separated at the door her to the sitting room to catch a nap on the couch, he to his lab collecting the items that would need to be brought.

* * *

He woke her an hour later. She looked as though she might have actually caught that much sleep. Slowly she sat up, looking very young, all eyes and a tumble of curls. Slowly, he moved to sit beside her. She sat back in the chair, bracing her back against the arm rest, putting a barrier between them with her drawn up legs.

Lifting the bottle of amber liquid he held into plain view he studied it, after a moment of silence he held it out to her. She looked so hesitant, almost afraid. Reaching out she took the bottle. Her fingers were wrapped white knuckled around the short glass neck.

"Do you want me—" She began, biting her lower lip.

"No… but if it will help you… let you relax, just a little. I thought I would make the offer."

"I've never…erm… I don't know how I'll react… I've never had more than butterbeer, and not enough to get… tipsy."

Snape nodded, studying her carefully, "It will make you feel warm, at first. If you drink enough, at your size, two or three strong pulls will have you relaxed. You'll want to curl up somewhere warm and comfortable. As I'm sure you know your reactions will be slow, your inhibitions lowered. It's a very effective anesthetic."

"What if it acts like a beffudlement brew? I need… I don't think I could stand it if it felt like that. It's terrifying to know you should be panicking… and can't."

"I thought that would be the case, Thank you for considering it," He reached out and took the bottle from her, rising to put it away.

"Severus… why do you want me to?" She asked.

For a moment, he almost told her the partial truth, but then he remembered… this was not a girl he could protect, this was the woman who would soon be his wife, "It's insurance, for both of us. If you do panic, sober, you are strong enough to do both of us damage. I would have to do something invasive to control you. It is not hard to control an inebriated woman. There would be no risk of harming you. And… If I do force you… you can blame the whiskey, that you weren't able to fight me off."

Impulsively, she crossed the room and reached out squeezing his arm, then emboldened gave him a brief hug, "Thank you. I don't need it… Thank you though."

After a long moment he wrapped his arms around her, "When all of this is over, the blame is mine."

She did not say yes or no, but when she slid out of his arms, Snape realized it was time. Now the circle of his arms was not a protection but a prison, and he hated the change. Could he have nothing good in his life without destroying it? He was like a cruel child pulling the jeweled wings off butterflies. Worse… because he had known the lovely creatures as fuzzy caterpillars, watched them in their glossy chrysalis and gently dried their wings as they tumbled out all bent and crushed.

They set about transporting the clay figures to the correct rune circles and she placed a glass basin of the oil and one of ash in the center of the main circle.

They had half an hour left before sunset and returned to the house to change.

She wordlessly accepted a long-sleeved, white button-down from him, her thanks a small smile when he rolled the cuffs up above her hands. She bowed her head fiddling with the top buttons, her hair falling to conceal her face. For an instant, head bowed, her form disguised beneath too large cotton, she looked like a child in her father's cast offs. He shook his head banishing this disturbing image.

She seemed to crackle with energy, but at the same time, had grown increasingly still and silent as the sun hung lower in the sky. The full moon had already peeked above the horizon, so once the sun hid her face it would be time.

"Are you ready?" he asked her gently.

She nodded firmly, "Get your potions, I'll meet you there."

He accepted this and gave her a final moment to compose herself. The walk seemed exceptionally long, but as the burning orange orb had not yet touched the horizon he knew it was not so much more than a blink of time.

To await the sun's setting and his brightly burning lioness he settled against the trunk of a large oak. Something about sitting minimized the threat he would present. When the sun, now crimson, touched the horizon she appeared as quietly as the mist combing its moist fingertips through the leafed canopy, still hovering well above the sun warm ground, her pale form silent and still though her eyes seemed as lurid as the spectacularly dying sun. She crouched down to face him and, as if to mock him for ever questioning that she was a lioness, the sun's final rays fell so brightly on her that she seemed a candle wick set alight in the final moments of its life.

For an instant in the twilight it seemed as though she were literally glowing with the absorbed solar brilliance.

Under a blood and twilight sky and a full harvest moon, he extended the Light potion to her. The part of him that was purely and intellectually fascinated with powerful magic, could taste the power in the air and reveled in it. Something close to hunger, for that power… for the knowledge it promised, momentarily possessed him before his eyes saw her, really saw her. Saw the wary, cautious woman staring at his hand as if he were proffering some venomous creature she was unfamiliar with. Then she blinked her eyes flicking to him, outward, up, she breathed deeply then met his eyes.

Reaching across the space between them she took the flask in hands that did not shake. Hermione watched him quietly, uncorking it as he did. He lifted it and paused when she did as if in a grim toast. Something was stopping her, and he would wait, until she could overcome it. Her fingers tightened on the slender neck of the glass, he wondered idly if she would throw it away from herself. She met his eyes, her grip tight enough to shatter regular glass. He was surprised to realize he had no intentions to stop her if she did.

Something she saw then changed her mind.

She flashed him a bleak smile and lifted her flask in a wordless toast to luck and strength before putting the glass to her lips and drinking it down.

It was like watching her hesitate at the very edge of a cliff, take a deep breath, and back off a few steps… tricking him into thinking that maybe, maybe she would save herself, before she used the distance to get a running start.

He did the same feeling the midnight draught settle with a burn like fire whiskey in his stomach. It felt like sparks of fire on his tongue, not unpleasant.

Watching her he wondered if there was not some mildly intoxicating effect the potion had on his senses. The only thought he could clearly grasp was lovely as he watched Hermione delicately remove a pair of soft leather slippers, revealing small white feet.

Catching himself he shook his head slightly, rising to his feet.

He offered her a hand to rise and she grasped it firmly. Severus watched her face dutifully as her nimble fingers went delicately down the front of her shirt and she shrugged leaving his shirt in a careless pile on the forest floor. She hurt him with her trust.

"Forgive me," he murmured, the words sounded foreign, but utterly appropriate on his tongue. He owed so many, many people these words, but only she would hear them.

She smiled, inclining her head, in a distinctly formal gesture, she understood the honor he did her, "No matter what happens now," she responded.

He held out his hand and gave her one last chance to run. She recognized it, and smiled a smile that spoke of melancholy, self-damnation, and bitter won triumph. Her eyes said, _'It's too late for you to pull me up. I'm already in free fall.'_

Then she laid her hand in his and gripped it firmly. He did not pull her, but led her, through knee high grass. She picked her way along gingerly, her delicate feet the only part of her he was currently allowing his eyes to touch. Watching her cautious, halting motions he wanted to simply pick her up and carry her, but suspected she needed this time, every precious second of it. He knew she needed to do this thing under her own power. If he carried her, it really was no more than coercion of the lowest kind.

He released her then and watched her step lightly over the two lines of runes into the center of the ring. Hermione picked up the bowl of ash turning her back to him as he too shrugged out of his clothing. He took a risk and when he stepped into the spell bound keeping hold of his shirt. There was no reaction so he lay it on the grass. It was somehow marginally better than taking her on bare ground. He didn't think he would be able to stomach fucking her into the dirt. God help him. God help them all.

"Hermione," he spoke her name gently, as a votive might a prayer or invocation.

She turned to face him, her internal fires a hundred times brighter under silver moonbeams. He extended his hands palm up to her and she dutifully dipped two fingers into the ash marking the center of each palm, and when he bent, his forehead. He lowered his arms to his side and she stepped closer gingerly, as if she feared he would reach out and grab her, once she was in reach, marking the center of his chest in ash. He repressed a shiver, her hand seemed burning hot, her pale body gilded in molten silver.

No one who saw her like this would think her a child. No, it was a woman who watched him with eyes that burned, not with lust, nor love, but power, pure, wild, elemental. Those bright eyes flickered shut when he took the oil and marked her, palms, forehead, and delicately the pale wash of skin between her collarbones and the swell of dove white breasts.

Taking both of her palms in his he coaxed her to kneel with him, in front of him, the grasses of the meadow creating a surprisingly soft bed for her beneath his shirt. Her back was to him, and somehow he understood. She needed slow… she needed gentle, and although she would never ask for it, and would probably reject it, she needed love, from someone. Though she thought she could, looking at her now, seeing the apprehension in her eyes, and the jaundiced, weary, resignation, he knew she could not endure another man just taking from her.

She did not resist when he touched the back of her neck drawing her close. Tilting her face up he leaned over her shoulder kissing, the soft, sweetly scented patch of skin, between fine brows. It was almost polite in its formality. It was almost a question for its gentleness.

'_Can we do this thing?_' Dark eyes asked of dark honey. She was so stiff, as if she feared to relax one muscle would move her to flee. As if she was waiting for him to shove her flat, grasp at her hips like some animal, and have at her.

To disprove her fear he released the light hold at her waist and dropped his hand from her neck. She swayed an instant, on the verge of pulling away before freezing in place, one hand reaching back, reaching blindly, for him. She curled her hand around the back of his neck, her breath hesitating in her chest.

'_Do not leave me like that. I need something to lean on,'_ the tense grip screamed. She clutched him much as one who has nearly fallen off a balcony will clutch the rail, or a child will clutch a branch when the limb they balance on is tossed by wind.

"See, you are strong enough and brave enough, be soft for me," he breathed.

Slowly, her grip on his neck loosened till her hand fell back to her lap and she tentatively leaned back, expecting his arms to lock around her, yet when her skin molded to his and his hands remained light and gentle on her sides, the final ounce of tension drained away as she relaxed against his chest.

The impossibly supple curve of her back burned him, but Severus suspected that was simply his own mind's castigation.

He lifted the hand on her throat stroking the line of her fine jaw and tracing her perfect ears, the other buried in her sage and smoke scented hair, guiding rather than holding her, when his lips found hers, chaste, gentle. He touched her as one holds fine china, no thicker than an eggshell, securely to keep it from falling, but softly, and tenderly, carefully, lest it shatter. Her lips were soft as fresh rose petals and on her pale face like a splash of blood staining fresh snow, as if the very world were wounded. She was still, so still, then with a soft breath against his lips she gave in, relaxing into his touch softening the firm, unmoved line of her lips, allowing him to do as he wished.

There was no rush. He wanted to let her get accustomed to his touch, to intimacy. He kissed her slowly, warmly, gently until she allowed him to turn her pressing them front to front. She still knelt at his side, afraid and unwilling to ease onto his lap. He respected it when she turned her face away. He paused, his hands sliding from her face and hair down her back, and up again to rest on her shoulders as he tried to determine what particularly he had done wrong.

"Please…" The word was more a movement of her lips against his shoulder, where she had hidden her face.

He could feel her light panting against his skin when she pulled back slightly, licking her lips nervously before sealing them. Oh. He had been trying to taste the inside of her mouth. He instantly understood that she had found the act far too viscerally similar to what he would do next. It was him breeching her, dominating, and neither of them had any need for that.

"You only need tell me. I won't. Shhh… I won't," his hands smoothed over her back and arms repetitively, urging her to relax. He had scared her.

His hands too large on a small female body found instead the exquisite dip at the small of her back and the warm curve of her waist. He rested his cheek on her hair, allowing her to stay curled into the warmth of his shoulder. Gently he coaxed her into his lap. He stopped lifting her when she stiffened, her hands tapping tentatively, but insistently at his wrists, _asking_ him to let go.

"I'll do it…" she mumbled, her motions halting, her face downturned. Bracing herself on his shoulders she straddled him, slowly lowering herself onto his thighs. Although she was coming closer, her body language was closed, and shrinking away. She was trying to be as far from him as possible while still complying.

He couldn't stand to watch her fear. He embraced her, despite how she stiffened in panic, lifting her again. Her eyes slammed shut, her nails biting into his shoulders. Gently, he grasped her leg, just above the knee, lifting it across his lap so she was seated sideways. She was vibrating under his hands.

"Hush… I didn't mean to make you do that. Not yet, it's too soon yet," with firm hands he caressed her sides, easing lower, stroking her outer thighs, pressing her trembling knees together, urging her to relax.

He held her as one might a child, rocking her gently, pressing his lips to her hair, whispering nonsensical lies, unable to bear her quaking, "Breathe Hermione. Shhh, we'll stop a while, it's alright. I wasn't going to. You're going to be alright."

Finally the shivers eased and she was still. He suspected it had more to do with exhaustion than anything else… it took too much effort to be that afraid. She was huddled in the fetal position, everything about her position was closed. Everything an attempt to keep him out.

"Can you do this, Hermione? Is it too hard for you, like this?" he asked. Was it too much to ask her to endure what was essentially prolonged torture?

It was a question and a promise.

If you need it, I will make it…

Quick

_Brutal_

Impersonal

_Cold_

If you need it.

I can be what you need.

* * *

Oh my god… it's happened/is happening and I can't make it stop. I'm so sorry, so very very sorry… except I'm not really. Thanks to everyone for their words of encouragement that helped me work up the nerve to post this. You're beautiful people, every one of you.


	23. Chapter 23 - Tasting Blood

Ch 23

Tasting Blood

Her eyes flashing up to watch him, "I'm sorry," She mouthed the first words, swallowing hard and trying again, "I-I thought you…pull me down." she mumbled mostly unintelligibly, "I'll try…I don't want, not yet."

Leaning forward he pressed his lips over both lavender lids, "Relax, Hermione, I will warn you before we go there. We _**can**_ do this."

And it was a prayer and a plea.

She echoed it, something unyielding in her voice, "We can."

He pressed warm palms over sharp hipbones exploring how the slight swell of hips narrowed to waist and met the supple curve of her breasts. He brushed his hands over her back, counting the minute ridges of vertebrae. Sensitive fingertips explored the sloping lines and texture of supple skin over muscle and bone. He judged her stress with fingertips placed lightly between the sharp blades of her shoulders. Her eyes were too full with power to distinguish there such subtleties as the minute twinge that traveled through her, a bare tightening of the fine bone shelves when his lips touched the underside of her jaw. It was too close to her vulnerable throat for comfort. She was holding her hands loosely open in her lap, but they had tensed, as if in preparation for movement… Severus gathered one hand in his, brushing a light kiss over her knuckles.

Even so still as she was, she was beautiful, so full with power it occasionally raced in a brief streak of gold and red over her skin. Finally, once the sky was truly dark and she seemed a small star herself under the pregnant moon, he asked her to lie down.

"Now?" she whispered, her voice tight.

"No, dearest, just relax for me," he eased down beside her, urging her close to the warmth of his body, when the cool night air caused her to shiver. He was surprised that she trusted him enough to press close, her hands resting lightly on the center of his chest.

Touching light fingers at the nape of her neck he drew his hand down the line of her body. His hands, too hard, too large, and too used to handling things that could withstand their roughness familiarized themselves with her body so warm, to seem fevered with power, so small and soft under his hands, his heart was frozen to think he would harm her.

The whole time she watched him, not what he was doing to her, not his hands exploring her flesh as he wished. Her burnt amber eyes, heavy and unwavering, were on his face, searing, waiting for the aggression, the viciousness NEED, experience told her lurked in every man. She wanted to be able to see it coming. She had to prepare herself for it. He held her gaze, out of respect for her and in acceptance of any blame she would lay on his shoulders for this, wishing peace to her jaded, aching heart.

Finally, when she remained soft and relaxed beneath the hand resting low on her abdomen, he nodded, and she bit her lips, the hand resting lightly on the back of his to follow his movement's tightening in apprehension. She did not look away till he knelt over her. Then, even she could bear no more and turned her face aside. He touched her cheek with light fingers brushing her curls like a silken veil back from her face. It shamed him to do so… lifting the Madonna's veil, sacrilege, but he had to know. Had to know… The only sign of unrest were eyes clamped tightly shut.

At his touch on her face her eyes sprang open, fearful, tears catching the moonlight on her lashes. He hesitated lifting his fingers from her cheek. Her face was briefly free from his shadow and the full harvest moon was a spotlight.

For half an instant he saw himself reflected in her eyes, saw hands, larger than her face, close to glistening orbs that could be gouged out if the whim struck, hovering over a slender throat he could crush under the weight of his shoulders and arms.

Shame, his shame, because it occurred to him that she might be justified in fearing such brutality at his hand.

"Don't…you don't have to fear that."

Ever so slightly she nodded and trusted him enough to close her eyes.

Careful hands felt the warm moisture gathering on dark lashes and he kissed her temple his body easily covering her slender form. He felt her quiver just once beneath the unyielding heat of his frame now shielding her from the sky. Saw her eyelids flick, eye's locking unwillingly on his face. He saw the internal struggle, the desire to block out him and his actions, but the knowledge that she could not protect herself from him if she allowed herself the slight veil of closed eyes.

"You don't have to watch if it hurts you."

His breath was warm and moist along the curve of her jaw and the soft hollow beneath her ear, he kissed her smooth, downy skin once, twice, felt her twitch once more in quickly repressed rebellion, saw silvered droplets gather like dew on long lashes, saw white teeth press her full lower lip, turning red lips momentarily white and bloodless.

"Beautiful, you can cry. Shhhh… it's no sin to weep," he breathed the words, catching the first tears on lightly calloused fingertips. His thumbs traced over the reddened marks just below her lips.

With a soft sob against his fingers she let go of her tears. They fell like slow, gentle, late summer rain, warm and rich. She grieved silently for innocence lost, and the pain and shame that tore clawed fingers through her mind and cast pain, like a sharp echo over her flesh. She shed a tear for each reverent touch he bestowed on her scarred, and bruised, and tainted body. The crystalline drops fell faster when he parted her knees and knelt between, but she did not struggle.

…

Snape felt her warm thighs quiver beneath his palms, her breath catching in her throat. He slid his hands down slowly.

"I'm going to touch you," he warned.

He stared at her, hoping, stupidly, she would look him in the eye. But she did not, her silent tears tearing into his skin like daggers.

He touched her warmth, startling a quickly muffled whimper from her lips. Then he slowly slid one finger into her. She was prepared for the invasion and didn't make a sound. She stayed very still, relaxing her muscles so as not to cause herself undue pain. He watched her hand fist, white knuckled into his shirt.

Though he had expected little else, this proved it. Her body was not prepared to receive him. He would hurt her. Stroking her thigh in what he hoped was a soothing manner he ceased pressing painfully into her heat. He had barely been able to sink in past the first knuckle. Looking about himself he reached out, dipping his hand, well past the third knuckle, into the basin of oil.

She visibly started, half rising, stark fear staring out of eyes of dark umber, when he again pressed a single digit into her, the oil slicking his passage, easing her pain.

With difficulty she reined herself in freezing in place. Severus seemed too large, filling her entire field of vision. He was such a tall man, even kneeling he towered over her body, so vulnerable splayed before him. Open, so shameful. He seemed to block out the sky, nothing but a bare thread of the huge silver-grey moon was visible around him, casting a hazy glow defining his broad, dark outline. Her small hand gripping his forearm seemed such a paltry attempt she let her hand fall, a soft animal cry slipping past her lips. She was utterly at his mercy, she let her eyes drop from his shadow dim face. Both hands fisted tightly, helpless, so helpless.

The stark fear in her eyes jogged his memory, and he cursed his own stupidity.

"Shh, you're safe. I don't want to hurt you," he murmured tipping her chin up to stare into her fear bright eyes, "I don't want to hurt you, Hermione," he repeated gently, pressing into her again.

She shuddered at the feel of slick oil, down there, but nodded slowly, at his urging lying back once more. Severus would not hurt her with the oil… he was trying to be kind. He was trying… she choked on a sob. Her breath struggled in her throat as it closed hard around a jagged lump of fear.

From his position he could see her chest heaving quickly in terror, her hands, clenched tightly in the black cotton beneath her. Her features were beginning to win free of her iron control, fear bleeding across her pale face, her brow deeply furrowed, her lips, scarlet from the violent press of her teeth, a thin line, a grimace.

She was tight. Despite the abuse she had suffered it had been over a year since a man had touched her and he was deathly afraid to tear her. When he pressed a second finger into her, her stomach spasmed, oil slick walls clamping tightly around his fingers. This jerked a pained whimper from her throat, and Severus stilled, his free hand gently massaging her lower abdomen.

When he moved these two again she covered her lips, biting down on the fleshy part of her thumb to muffle any small noises she might make. Severus began to stretch her in earnest now, watching her silent struggle helplessly. What could he do for her? He knew that lingering was only stirring her growing terror.

Just as he turned his wrist curling his two fingers in her slick, twitching passage she reached down and grabbed his free hand which was pressed lightly over her stomach, not really holding her in place... just steadying her. Her nails dug into his skin, her eyes, twin suns, wet with tears, screamed desperation.

"Stop," she begged.

He paused, studying her, wondering if he would need to restrain her and feeling bile rise in his throat at the thought. No man should think such a thing, not when kneeling between a woman's soft thighs. She wasn't fighting… yet. She might still be talked down.

Her breath came in shuddering gasps, almost sobs.

"I'm almost finished. You can do this." he soothed, his fingers shifting slightly in her.

She shook her head violently, "No, no, please…" she was panting in earnest now, her whole body trembling, tightening, it caused his hand to slip again as her most intimate place tried to reject him, "Stop!" She near screamed, the word catching terror thick in her throat and he froze.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked in a voice choked off by a fear that mirrored hers.

With obvious difficulty she relaxed her body, forcing herself to breathe through her nose, her features regaining the still, tranquil emptiness he had come to associate with her most iron-clad masks, otherwise she was unresponsive to his query. He was afraid to move and cause her more pain.

Her slow, careful breaths were betrayed by her hands clenched so tightly as to tremble. Her silence terrified him.

He touched her wrist gently, "You have to tell me, Hermione. Please beautiful, don't let me hurt you."

In a low, hard voice she ground out, "Don't. Make. Me—" her abdomen tightened and she gasped as though wounded, mask shattering, the tears were falling faster now, "P—please…please don't…you promised…please…" she begged brokenly.

He understood then. The one thing she would not forgive. He had no desire to do this to her. Merciful god, where was the middle ground? He felt like a blind man mired in a quicksand swamp. Where was the safe path? Did one even exist? He could not bear to hurt her, and yet she lay beneath him in unquestionable agony.

"Hermione… it's alright if it doesn't hurt. It's alright if it feels good. There's no shame in that. I won't damn you with it later. God, I swear I won't hurt you with this."

This did not appear to reassure her at all and her whole body convulsed in a quickly suppressed sob.

"Shhh… relax, relax for me, you'll be alright, beautiful," he murmured nonsensically.

Reaching out he lifted her from her back, supporting her as she sat up. Wordlessly he took her trembling hands wrapping them around his wrist. He shifted her slightly, sinking to a cross-legged position so her back was supported by his chest and his free arm was secured around her waist. She cooperated with him when he stroked her soft, pale thighs, draping her legs over his knees, leaving herself open to him.

"Just stop me if it is too much. I will wait until you are ready," he breathed into her ear.

He felt her nod burying her tear wet face in his chest, "sorrysorrysorry…" she mumbled.

"Shh…whatever you need, anything that makes it easier," he assured, "Are you ready?" he waited for her to nod before he began again twisting his digits, stretching her very, very slowly. She was so small. He would hurt her, he was sure of it.

Her deep, quick pants were hot and moist on his skin, her body trembled as her breasts heaved, her pale, silver gilded curves so flush with blood that she nearly burned in his arms, but she did not stop him. Occasionally, her short nails would cut into his skin as she tensed, but she did not struggle. He blessed the lioness who submitted herself to her fear, to him, with such grace. Gently, he kissed her temple in a vain attempt to banish the shame, grasping its cold fingers round her shuddering chest. It was his shame, not hers. He was the one assaulting a sobbing woman, small enough, young enough, to be a girl. He pressed his fingers into her tight heat, feeling her flesh taunt and stretched, unwilling still to accommodate a third.

She whimpered shaking her head, choking on a moan that failed to win free of her throat… her upper teeth abusing her lower lip in attempt to remain silent.

"Christ— just finish, please, Dear God, please," she sobbed out.

Tucking her under his chin coaxing her to hide her tear damp face against him, "Hermione, you're doing beautifully. I wouldn't think worse of you if you enjoyed this," he murmured.

They were the wrong words. They triggered the sharp painful memory of different words, harsher words.

…

Low filthy words growled in her ear as some stranger left his fingerprints in blood on her hips, ground himself into her drenched…bleeding core, "You're so wet. Such a filthy little mudblood slut, you're enjoying this aren't you? Listen to you moaning like a first class whore. Enjoy it bitch, probably the closest you'll come to having pure blood in your body. "

…

"I'm. _not_. a. slut." She ground out, so softly he almost didn't hear over her quick panting as he invaded her most intimate place.

He felt cold. She was so deep in memory… he bled for her pain, "No, sweet, you are a strong, brave lioness. No you're not. Shh…" he rocked her in his arms gently, dropping light kisses over the side of her face he could reach without releasing her, "Shhh… oh Beautiful…" he crooned softly. He didn't mean to degrade her, or make her feel lewd... he never intended to hurt her like this, "Never, You're so strong, Hermione. No one could ever use you like that. The only thing hurting you now is your fear. Just relax… stop fighting it, I swear nothing bad will happen."

She trembled in his arms, but after a moment gasped his name, coming back to him.

"Severus."

"Hermione."

She took a deep breath, one of her hands leaving his wrist to twine her fingers with his where they wrapped her middle. Then gripping him tight she did as he urged slowly releasing her breath. Her whole body relaxed and he managed to slide a third digit deep inside the warmth of her soft flesh. Her exhale turned into a low croon and Severus kissed her temple softly. He couldn't imagine the amount of control it took her to do this, and damned himself, because he knew he was going to make it so much worse. Too soon, or perhaps, after ages, depending on your perspective, he deemed her as ready as he could help her to be.

Carefully, he lowered her to her back kneeling again between her trembling thighs. She was trying so hard to stay relaxed, when every instinct told her body to clench tight. He kissed her cheek.

"Are you ready?" he asked, feeling her press her tear damp face into the crook of his neck and shoulder, her hands gripping at his neck and shoulders to hold herself close. The action surprised him, she had been so unresponsive until now… softly she murmured his name and he understood. She was letting him know, that for the moment… she was here with him, that she knew him and what was happening to her.

She slowly pulled away from him, she had regained control. Her hands fell to lay loosely over the tops of her breasts. Her eyes were tightly closed once more, a tear slipping free from dark lashes occasionally. But she nodded, biting down firmly on the large joint and metacarpal of her thumb once more.

He briefly considered stopping her, concerned she would harm herself… but he suspected she could not bear this final disgrace any other way. He let her be. It would be useless to tell her again, so lost in memory she could barely perceive reality that it was alright for her to make noise. That it was not a sign of weakness. He knew what he was doing was wrong, she should feel no burden to hide her pain from him. Yet even to tell her that would only increase the pressure on her to try to act as he desired.

He watched unmoving as she bit back a sob, her teeth pressing even and white, making bloodless depressions in her flesh. No, not this, this he would not watch.

Wordlessly, he tugged her hand free, offering up the broad expanse of shoulder and neck, for the purposes of muffling cries. If she were going to draw blood it might as well be his. As expected she refused going back to biting her own lips, which he prevented with gentle, but insistent fingers.

"I can take it. Please let me. Consider it a very minor payback," he offered with macabre humor.

Her strangled hiccup, that would probably have been a laugh in less stressful circumstances made him think that maybe she hadn't completely deadened herself to what was happening. With a sudden lurch she wrapped herself up around him, her arms, nearly too tight, the tense, waiting pressure of her teeth on the lean muscle between neck and shoulder. It was a strange relief to him she wasn't so set on holding everything in, that she was willing to use him to find what comfort she could, even if that was only in being able to inflict some small measure of her suffering on her abuser.

Though she was slick with oil and some natural wetness, he could not trust to that and coated himself liberally in oil. Firmly he took a hand to himself. Any warm blooded male would be hard, but to find his end in a fearful, crying girl, that was too much to ask, of either of them. He closed his eyes to hide the sight of her slender neck and delicate shoulders trembling with the involuntary shivers of her muscles. But the feel of her lips, quivering with silent sobs against his skin only seemed more potent. He knew her eyes were clenched tight, as a child might to hide from night terrors.

This wasn't working. He could still hear and feel her quick, shallow, terror-laced gasps, growing louder, consuming his awareness as he focused on her. He supposed he should be grateful he found her fear powerfully repellant, but at the moment it was a hindrance. With a muttered curse he nuzzled into her silky curls feeling them caress his face as fine as spider silk, breathing in her warm, smoky scent, it was a pleasant musk, not flowery or sickly sweet, but deeply feminine, almost herbal in nature, and the stimulus he needed to fight down the self-disgust long enough to make this ordeal quick for her... and to push himself past the point where backing out was the easier option. He stiffened when he felt her small warm hands shift slightly, her teeth leaving his neck. She was holding him to her, offering a soft caress, fuck… she was trying to help, to seem inviting… and it was working. Soon he was pressed firmly against her warmth.

She whined softly in the back of her throat as he began to push into her body, her jaw locking tight around his shoulder. He grunted at the sharp bloom of pain, feeling her teeth press into the wound afresh, and then wrench suddenly away when she released him. With a deep breath he pulled back slightly to watch her face. It pleased him to see her lips painted crimson with his blood, further proof of the dull pain radiating from his shoulder. Her eyes snapped open to stare into his. He met her wide, fearful eyes calmly, gentling his firm hold on her hips. Both of her hands had latched onto his upper arms. They were small and strong, and seized fearfully into his biceps. He did not show her how it cost him to remain in control. It was difficult, she felt… Christ, she was a beautiful, perfect specimen of a woman, her inner walls fluttering gently around him, so hot it almost burned, and so very, very tight. It would be far too easy to simply impale her on his length… but he was not exactly a spring colt. He knew his way around a woman. There was no need to be hasty, most especially given the raw fear in her eyes. Such action would at the least shock her… worst case, he would tear her open around him, leave her screaming and bleeding.

If she could control her fear, he could control the animal selfishness that would cause her unintended pain.

Shifting the angle of her hips upward slightly, keeping gentle, but steady pressure he slid in another inch or two, painlessly. She stiffened in surprise, relaxing slowly when he did not plunge the rest of the way. He realized then she had fully expected to have to smother her screams on her knuckles. And almost wished she were still latched onto his shoulder so she could find some outlet for the vile killing fear. But he needed to see her face. Needed to know what she was feeling. He did the next best thing holding her gaze, willing her to remain calm. As if to say, _'See? I'm not going to hurt you.'_

Gently, he arched her back, opening her up for him to ease deeper. With seemingly infinite patience he then slid his hands under her knees hooking her legs over the backs of his, pressing himself down into her a little further. A few long minutes and little adjustments later he was fully within her and she was gasping silently, surprise marking itself, a pleasant change over the terror in her copper eyes.

"That always hurts," she admitted half-unwillingly, then ashamed, she flinched back from his gaze hiding her face in the crook of his neck.

He kissed the line of her throat, and the curve of her jaw, tasting the slightly bitter salt of her tears on his lips, "Not always. It doesn't have to," he murmured pressing her hips down firmly under his own as he let her adjust to the feel of him so deep.

"Why linger?" She surprised him by asking her voice very near, just a breath beside his ear.

"Would you prefer?" He forced out, his voice several octaves lower than normal, and rough.

"Too close… but no," she thought briefly of the horrid burning, raw sensation as compared to this sense of stretching that warned of tearing if he moved thoughtlessly, it was close to pain, but was not, and the close, warm press of his weight, over her hips and belly, everything about him, close, crowding, pressing on her, _in_ her... but not, she realized, harming or threatening. He was not forcing his domination on her, impossible as it seemed he was giving her space, giving her a breath of control over the situation. She found the touch of his hands large, and callous rough, stoking her shoulders, arms, flanks, soothing. Now when she should feel most afraid, most in danger, illogically, she felt safe, calm. Here they were, and yes, Severus Snape was above her, around her, inside her, but there was no pain. There was no grunting, vicious thing grasping at her, rutting, ripping his pleasure from her body, drinking in her screams. No, it was just Severus, the man she had come to know, neither giving nor taking.

"Then we can wait."

He held himself still a long time, feeling the small, warm shape of her beneath him impress itself upon his memory. The feel of her warm, soft skin, against his, the gentle fluttering, tensing of her taunt stomach muscles, triggered by his every breath. Her smell, warm, with a hint of salt, that was tears or sweat, and a faint lingering trace of sweetness like the aftereffects of licorice root, that he could still taste on his tongue, and smoke… a deep, spicy smoke he could taste-feel, dry, in the back of his throat. He waited patiently, allowing her to recover herself slightly. Already he was invading her most intimate place he did not desire to threaten her hard won control any further.

When her heaving breast, began to ease, her breath barely feathering in light, hot puffs against his shoulder he risked a short partial motion feeling her seize up around him, her body clenching almost painfully, dragging a startled, choked off whine from her and a guttural grunt from him.

"Should have warned you," he murmured a moment later, careful fingers brushing a light touch over her high delicate cheekbone.

Slowly he pulled back and with the same unbreakable control thrust into her softness. But even stone could not have remained entirely stoic. As he pressed into her trembling heat his low grunt almost lost itself in her breathy gasp.

Power came alive between them crackling like lightning over his skin. His eyes flashed to hers and he watched silver cloud her bright irises, felt her hands tighten in anxiety on his arms as sight was taken from her. Fire and molten gold leapt to her skin in sheets and his own power reacted to hers falling over her in a net of jet- purple. As their power meshed, he pushed the strange sensation of electricity racing around him away from his mind highly aware of her entire body going rigid against his.

He lowered his lips to Hermione's ear, whispering soft encouragement and meaningless words, "Shhh, You're going to be fine, Hermione. You can feel me. I'm right here. Don't be afraid. It's me. I won't hurt you. It's only the spell. You're safe. Shhh… stay calm. Stay calm for me."

Anything to keep her from struggling, anything to let her know it was him and not some new trick of Bellatrix's. He heard her whimper softly, her fear becoming more apparent.

"Hermione, you're safe, it's only the spell. You'll be able to see soon. Don't be afraid. You don't have to be afraid."

She would concentrate on the spell. He would keep her calm as her world descended into dark, her eyes fully silvered as the souls fled her body, via the most readily available conduit to the outside. The minds she held poured forth as motes of bright mist circling above the joined couple searching for their forms.

The first to know its place was drawn to the western circle, then two flew north, after these found their places the others followed suit. When each mind had been drawn to its circle the fire that limed her limbs leapt free. A goldenly red fount spiraling up and outward to four points, turning each clay figure into a little glowing planet in orbit to the small sun that lay beneath him.

Bracing her body in his arms, one hand curving over the point of her hip, preserving the gentle arch of her spine which held her body open to him, the other hand braced above her shoulder, stroking her soft throat, feeling her quick, silent pants vibrate against his thumb. He was careful, ever so careful not to pin her he entered her again, and again.

Still she drank of his power transmuting it into the fiery display above them as clay morphed and changed and grew. He finished himself in her, and collapsed over her, unable to summon the strength to free her, as his concentration slid from being utterly gentle to pouring his power into her. She was able to draw his power into herself as quickly as he could push it out of his skin and the pillar of her magic grew broader as time passed and they struggled to return life to inanimate clay.

He could feel her chest rising and falling quickly beneath his, her hands finding purchase on his shoulders, his deep, heavy pants against her neck and shoulder, unheard for the roar of the inferno she controlled. A soft keen rent more deeply into his chest than any weapon ever had, and he clutched her close to his body as he had not dared to do before, pouring forth new reserves of power he did not know he possessed.

She was assaulted from all sides, pain of mind and body and magic breaking even the iron will of a lioness.

But however strong, he was one man and she needed more power than he alone could provide. The spell was pulling on reserves she didn't have and forcing silent, convulsive sobs. Desperate, he pressed his lips to hers kissing her deeply feeling the crackle of ambient magic race over his skin. She stiffened an instant to this new assault trying to jerk her face away, but he held her firmly. Then the fresh wave of power passed into her and she clutched at his shoulders. The torrent of power she exuded thickened once more to a steady pillar.

Yet still, though they were draining everything short of their lives into the spell, clay that grew, became human sized, did not quicken with life. Suddenly, she shifted her grip, no longer clinging to him, but holding him against her. He felt himself weaken as she took control of the power flow, not simply receiving, but taking, pulling his personal magic into her even as she absorbed the ambient magic that fed into her through every point where skin touched skin.

She seemed to know when she had taken as much as she dared risk and released him curling in on herself. Limbs heavy and clumsy with exhaustion, he pulled away from her. He ripped his gaze from her an instant and saw that, ranged around them stood the fallen, each transfixed in a diminutive pillar of her gilded crimson power, but they were figures of clay no longer.

Bending, he reverently wrapped his shirt around her body, shielding her from eyes that might soon see, before leaving the rune circle and yanking on black slacks. Already a few figures were being freed from their chrysalises. Potter crashed to his knees first. A quick glance told him the boy would recover himself. Instead he went to Dumbledore's side catching the stunned silvery tabby that tumbled out of his hands laying Minerva carefully on the ground. Black too was a behemoth wolfhound. He lowered the Lovegood girl to the grass, catching each of the three Weasley women, as they fell from Hermione's power, first the blonde, then the daughter, and finally the matron Weasley herself. The eldest woman almost took Snape down with her, exhausted as he was by Hermione's use of his power.

He did not even attempt to cushion the falls of any of the younger men, he felt no need to fall on his face, and they would heal from their bruises. Dumbledore was the final figure freed and it was all Snape could do to lower the tall man to the ground. As soon as he released the elder wizard's body he felt a harsh hand grip his arm, yanking him fully upright.

He was jerked around catching a glimpse of ragged dark hair and enraged green, green eyes, Lil's eyes, before Potter hauled back and punched him in the face. The metallic, salty tang of blood was thick on his tongue as he reeled. Already drained it was all he could do to remain on his feet.

* * *

AHHHHH! It happened. I'm so sorry for the cliff hanger last chapter… and the one this chapter. I'm just sorry in general that you are being dragged through the depraved recesses of my mind. Really truly sorry.

Does the super long chapter this time make up for it? at all?

Your reviews were all lovely, and I'm so sorry I didn't respond individually, for some reason fanfic is not letting me send messages. It wigs out when I try to type in the message box.

Much love to you all… any final thoughts on my attempt? Did it meet your expectations? Fall short of the 15 some chapters of build up?


	24. Chapter 24 - Bitter

Ch 24

Bitter

To his infinite surprise he was saved from a broken nose to accompany his split lip by the one man he would never have expected to come to his defense. Wolfhound turned man almost too quickly for human eyes to track the transition and in short order he had both of his godson's arms pinned behind his back as the young man struggled and cursed.

"YOU BLOODY PRICK! GOD _DAMN_ it. Let me go! Fuckin' Christ that _**Bastard**_ deserves it—"

The cat sitting on Dumbledore's chest stepped off and flowed into human form. Snape stared for a moment at Minerva. She looked almost fifteen years younger than when he'd seen her last…all of the adults looked at least that much younger.

"Do _Shut Up,_ Mr. Potter!" she barked out.

Shockingly, the boy fell silent.

She swept past him and converged with the Weasley matron on the fallen woman in their midst, hiding her pale limbs peaking from beneath the black of his shirt behind motherly fluttering.

"Alive," came the business-like conformation from Minerva and even Severus felt a thread of relief at this assurance.

Touching his wand he cast up an opaque grey barrier. It took hardly any power at all, the framework for the spell was already an existing mechanism of the wards over his property. He would not put Hermione up for a public viewing. In a sudden burst of energy Potter wrested free from his guardian getting in a last swing at him. Snape ducked, just managing to avoid getting a blackened eye, Potter's knuckles clipping his temple hard. His head snapped to the side and he stumbled, keeping his feet through sheer stubbornness.

"What the hell did you do?!" the boy spat, so red in the face he bordered on purple.

Black dragged him back by a fistful of shirt, grabbing both arms firmly.

Snape, who was practically swaying where he stood, spat blood. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he struggled with the instinct to cover the dark mark prominently displayed on his pale skin. Instead he straightened with a derisive air, "Pardon me for giving your friend a shred of privacy."

Potter bared his teeth at him, "You wanna worry about her privacy now, you bastard!? How about when you were fucking her, how about then?"

Black shook his charge roughly, as one will scold an unruly pup.

Once he was sure the boy listened he admonished, "Harry, this is ancient magic, it's not what it looks like."

"Are you saying you're alright with him fucking Hermione?" Potter accused, practically vibrating with the force of his rage.

"No…" Black's eyes flicked over Snape judging, heavy, but he had seen dark things before, "No, I didn't say that. I said you need to be quiet until all has been explained."

"Nothing explains this away!"

"The fact that it could very well be a bloodless corpse instead of a girl, rather gives me reason for pause," Black said his eyes dark and hard on Snape.

Black knew him, knew what he'd been, what he'd done when the pride of youth made him foolish and friends turned him astray.

"Not that," Snape muttered, "It's not that."

"He fucking raped her!" Harry bawled, livid that his godfather, Sirius of all people, was practically having a civil conversation with a man he should have stunned on sight.

"Potter," Snape growled, "Hermione—"

"Don't say her name!"

"Can hear you."

There has never been a silence more complete then the seven heartbeat stretch after those three words.

In that silence they heard a soft rising keen that their scuffling had been drowning out. Without a word Snape strode toward the opaque barrier only to have three adolescents block his path. The youngest Weasley boy stood beside Longbottom with his sister welded to his side, grim hatred on young faces and blazing in three sets of eyes. He did not have time for their mistrust. He did not have time for an explanation, even if he were a man who had ever offered one for his actions, but he was too weak to shove them aside, so he gave them the explanation that would remove them from his path quickest.

"She is in pain. As the only one here with a wand I suggest you _**move**_, if you want to ease your friend's suffering," he hissed moved close to violence with fear.

The three stood firm until another muffled cry reached their ears. The girl broke first. Her gaze broke from his and she cast a brief panicked look behind, her eyes cast out to the other adults, uncertainty as to what to do, warring with her instinctual hate for him.

Hermione screamed. Severus was physically incapable of not taking a staggering step towards her. He had once sworn he would never be the reason she screamed like that… the youngest Weasley whimpered at the same time as she bared her teeth at him. Gripping her brother's arm she tugged at him until he stepped aside and Longbottom followed suit. Her eyes dark with distrust and a threat he doubted she had in her to back up.

It was too much for Potter and he burst out, "You're the one who hurt her! How do we know you won't make it worse?"

Slowly, Snape turned to stare down the ignorant child, "You don't know, but you might notice that no adult here seems to have a problem with me tending to Hermione's welfare, probably because between Minerva and Mrs. Weasley, your concerns are childish and are keeping me from giving her aid."

Then he vanished into the screen.

* * *

"Minerva," he announced himself.

Mrs. Weasley rounded on him with such hate in her eyes he very nearly took a step back, but refrained. He did not even attempt to reason with her. From the inside of the barrier the figures outside were visible as through tinted glass, their words clear. A wave of his wand and silence reigned. No one else needed to hear Hermione weep.

"Minerva, look at your skin. It's sparking white, she's feeding her life into the spell. I can give her what's left of my power if you'll let me touch her."

The elder witch looked up from the sobbing, convulsing girl on the ground, her green eyes sharp, a note of accusation there.

"She is not bruised or bleeding. Minerva, I did not treat her ill. The spell is what pains her, not me, I swear to you. Let me help her," It was nearly a plea.

Minerva's eyes flicked from the girl to Severus and back again, "Molly, go tend to your offspring, assure them that Severus is behaving himself. They seem to be panicking," she finally instructed.

The redhead cast her a disbelieving look, "Minerva, you can't really mean to… not while she's… she's sobbing."

"That is precisely what I mean to do. You and I cannot help her, we have only her power. Please Molly."

Snape glanced back and saw that Ronald Weasley had thrown himself at the barrier and was being restrained by one of the twins.

The instant she had passed out of the barrier Minerva nodded for him to approach.

The elder woman addressed the young witch in a firm tone, Minerva had always handled herself well in emergencies, "Miss Granger, I'm going to allow Professor Snape to touch you. He is trying to help."

Hermione was unresponsive. Helpless to gain any insight from the girl if she was making the right decision, Minerva shot Severus a warning look and allowed him to come closer.

Kneeling on Hermione's other side he gently touched her face letting his power fall like a shower of sparks from his fingertips. Her pained spasms ceased and she opened her eyes.

"Hermione, stop, you've fed too much into the spell. You have to stop," he had intended to sound firm, businesslike, instead he was pleading.

She shook her head wordlessly, reaching out for him. She wouldn't or couldn't stop her power, her life, from running out of her soul through the gate opened by the runes. He gave her his hand well aware of Minerva's piercing gaze though Hermione seemed not to care about anything that did not serve to stop the pain. He averted his gaze from Minerva's piercing stare and met Hermione's pleading wheat gold, ashamed when Hermione chose to press his hand to her breast, just above her heart. Ancient magic, which knew nothing of propriety, held her in its throes and she pushed herself up, using his arm as a lever welding herself against his side, skin on skin, hiding her face against his chest. Tears still made crystal paths down pale cheeks, feeling like acid on his skin.

When she concealed her face he knew she was not oblivious to Minerva's presence at all. Feeling her hot, uneven breaths on his shoulder, her soft form molded to the hard planes of his side, her delicate shoulder tucked up under his arm, it was a struggle to remain unresponsive. Instinct said to gather her into his arms and hold her tightly.

"Severus," Minerva warned in a deadly voice.

"She's hurting, this helps her," he murmured giving into the impulse to hold her, to hide her from prying, judging eyes.

The arm she had curled under found its place across the small of her back, his hand fitting to her waist. His free hand stroked the side of her face, leaving behind veins of dark power.

"Why?"

"She can draw more energy skin to skin," He told the half lie, unconsciously pulling her closer.

"SNAPE!"

"I'm not trying to take advantage of her, Minerva. For God's sake, I'm trying to help. It is a dual working, it's easier for her when I am close, better power conduction."

It would be true if he had more than dregs to offer her. As it was she drew nothing but comfort and concealment from him. It frightened him somewhat that she was so ashamed to be seen by the others in this state that she would seek him, the one who had put her there. But it was more than that, even now the woman knew him, knew his mind nearly so well he knew hers, enough to predict him. Her brilliance of mind was in her cunning. The same mind that had forced him to this juncture now knew the exact supplication to bring any honorable man to his knees. No one with a shred of honor left could resist the pleas of a woman silently begging for a respite from pain.

"Severus, she's still pouring too much into the working," Minerva interrupted

He grimaced lifting his eyes from Hermione's face to Minerva's, "I know. I'm down to nothing, Minerva…It's going to look bad. I need you to believe me, I will not hurt her. I'm trying to save her life…I have to try…"

Wise, wise old eyes met his, met and held, her face was drawn tight, her lips pressed into a thin line, "Severus…"

"Minerva. She dies if we do nothing."

Assent unwillingly given he proceeded.

Gently, he coaxed her to lift her face to his. Hermione was cooperative until she perceived his intent. Then she tugged her chin free and hid her face against his shoulder.

"No," she mouthed the word.

He pressed his lips to the top of her head, "Hermione, please. It's almost over." She was the only one he owed any explanation at all.

She shook her head the hand clutching at his torso to hold herself in place tightening. He felt a dull sting as her nails opened small wounds, "Yes, it's almost over," she breathed, a relieved euphoria in her exhausted voice.

Instantly, without thought, he cast up a silencing charm. None should ever know of this moment.

"Hermione, you will not die now. Don't you dare," he growled, forcing her face up to his.

She glared at him and snarled with a last burst of energy, "I've done, I've given. I've nothing left but my life. It's useful for nothing else now."

He kissed her, his touch was harder than he intended, but she was stubborn, fighting it. He ignored Minerva's short shout of anger. Hermione bit him and jerked her face away. It probably wouldn't have succeeded except she had gotten the tender split Potter had already gifted him. She threw the magic he sought to force into her away baring teeth tinged red with his blood.

"Don't you dare run away," he hissed, "You are not a coward. You never were. You swore you could live with this."

"I lied," her voice was getting weaker, her head had fallen to rest on his shoulder her body sagging in his grip, "I never wanted to live beyond tonight, what would be the point?"

"NO," he barked, "You survived worse, I know. I saw."

It was denial, it was fear.

She smiled, her life was slipping away so quickly now vision was all but gone. Eyes, she could still see them, black, and piercing and wild with something... She tasted blood and wondered why. She hadn't wanted to hurt him…

"Yes, I did…but…you see, I knew I wouldn't have to deal with it long… please, let me… I can't…anymore."

He was furious, and so very sad. He should have known, should have seen. No one could be that strong. To live with herself after she submitted to him like a slave, chattle, some weak vessel for his gratification, was it asking too much? Perhaps, rather than a sign of weakness she was choosing the hardest path of all. He had never known a man or woman stronger than her. She knew what would happen if she lived… she only wished to free all of them from that fate. He had walked her mind and still she had concealed this, her final card. How long had she hidden her quiet determination to simply slip away?

"What are you running from? Is it me? I'll never, never touch you again. Not like this, not ever. I know how it hurts you. Is it them? Are you ashamed? The sin is mine, not yours. All the blame is mine alone. I hurt you. If you had not submitted I would have made you, and the responsibility for it lies with me."

She shook her head weakly, "I told you… I'm just so tired… If it makes me a coward, so be it. It's so much better for everyone this way."

"Not for you Hermione! Don't do this. Stop. Why should you sacrifice yourself?"

"I'm not afraid…It…can't be…worse…"

For several seemingly eternal minutes he listened to her breath, growing shallow and weak, his fingers pressing insistently to find the weakly fluttering pulse, his brain stuck in blind negation of the very real fact that Hermione was dying in his arms.

'_No, no, no, no, no, no…'_

His expression hardened. He could not just let her slip away.

He bent his face down to hers, kissing her brow, gently, so gently, apologetically, "Just this once, I'm going to be very cruel, and very selfish. You may curse me for it later. I can't let you die like this. Not when we've succeeded and there's finally a chance to escape this hell."

Then he caught and held her, she was too weak now to resist. He lowered his mouth to hers, her lips were parted slightly as she panted. He felt her fight it, for an instant, rejecting the energy he forced into her. Then the spell took hold of her limbs, she could not help but drink in the power. He felt her shove weakly at his chest, not to fight him off, but to express her anger, her helplessness. He did not release her, not when she dug her nails into his side drawing blood, not when she struggled to pull her face from his. He felt her rage and weathered it. Yet, had she been a breath stronger even he would have feared her anger.

Colored fire ran over Minerva's skin and she touched her arm in surprise. Unconsciously, Hermione dragged her hand up his side leaving reddened scratches and pressed her palm over his heart, pressing her magic into him. Immediately he grabbed her hand putting it away from himself, but it made no difference, he could feel her magic replenishing his drained stores. He reeled back from her, as Minerva lunged forward grabbing the girl and yanking her away, the thread of power still connecting them despite such paltry interference. The silencing spell broke when the elder women touched the girl. Snape was honestly shocked the elder witch had held off for so long.

"Stop! What are you doing? Hermione, you can't afford—" he struggled to take control of the power flow stemming it, or rejecting it.

It was a trial for her to lift heavy lids, to look at him, but she did and he recoiled from the unspeakable emptiness within. She was a husk, utterly drained of power, of energy, even of rage. Her whisper barely passed her lips, "You win, damn you. I'll stay. Let me finish. The spell won't release me… till I've finished."

Reluctantly, Minerva let him take the girl back into his arms. He cradled her frail, too light, form to himself with arms that grew stronger with every passing moment. She was charcoaled wood, even the weight of her eaten up by flame, a hollow boned bird. He helped her by pressing her palms over his heart when they began to slip. She clung tightly for a minute, two… then simply lay limp, her power still flowing, but she lacked the energy to do aught but lie still. Snape cursed, she was so weak already, and she was giving him, who needed it the least, her strength. Why?! Why make him stronger, and leave her at his mercy? Oh… oh lord, how could he be so blind? They were bound, Hermione, his wife, and himself now the husband of the girl, her protector… her keeper. It was self-preservation, ensuring he was strong enough to look after her while she recovered.

"Severus, this will kill her, why?" Minerva begged the soft, soft question.

Snape shook his head feeling a dreaded kind of helplessness, but banishing it with grim determination, "No, it won't kill her. It's old magic. I can only think it's a defensive mechanism, so the two of us aren't helpless when the working finishes."

"How much more?"

Snape didn't know, he only knew that he felt as though live current was being pushed through his veins and finding its home deep in his bones, pure, boundless energy, just begging for use.

Hermione answered for him. Pressing her forehead to his chest, she croaked out, "It's enough. Please, I… out of the circle… sever connection."

He made to lift her, but Minerva stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, "You must give her to me."

She shrugged off her emerald tartan outer robe, handing it to Snape who easily bundled the nearly unresponsive young woman into it. He tried to clean some of his blood from her face, it looked quite…bad, but quickly gave up the effort, she needed out of the circle and damn traumatizing a few of the youngsters. As much as he hated to let Hermione go, Minerva was right. With the way Potter and the Weasleys were feeling toward him, to touch her in their sight would border on suicidal.

He stood settling her into the elder witch's arms, "Can you handle her? She doesn't weigh much."

"I've got her," the Minerva acknowledged nodding for him to step back and drop the shield.

The instant it was down they were assaulted by a barrage of sound, true it was only Harry and Ron that were shouting, the heads of the Weasley clan were silent in their rage, Dumbledore was standing but his expression was inscrutable and he said no more than his companion a grim and silent Black, but after the unnatural quiet of the barrier it was deafening. When Minerva stepped out of the circle the woman in her arms convulsed. Concerned Minerva would drop her Snape reached out a steadying hand, Hermione's eye's fluttering at his touch. Thankfully, once they were past the runes and Severus had removed his hand from her shoulder Hermione fell limp, well and truly out, which was good, given what was being shouted.

Quickly, Snape stepped back out of the way of the three youths who were instantly crowding Minerva. Potter kept trying to take Hermione from her, but Minerva snapped at him and he desisted. Snape was concerned they would bowl the poor witch over in their anxiety, until Black elbowed his way through the wall created by Potter and the two youngest Weasleys relieving Minerva of her burden. Taking control of the situation with a firm, "I've got her, Minerva." Snape was instantly grateful for the care with which large unfamiliar hands held her. Grateful they were not rough in the zeal of youthful energy. He was pathetically grateful to his enemy for protecting the one thing that mattered most.

"Where can I take her?" Black barked over the babble of questions and accusations and pleas for Hermione to, "open your eyes, please! Look at me!"

"The house is through the trees directly at your back," Snape directed, his voice raised to be heard above the rabble.

"Hermione!"

"—she alright? Will she be alright?"

"—looks awful. She's so—"

"There's so much blood. He's killed her!"

Snape was suddenly unspeakably grateful she had not left him utterly drained and unable to defend himself… if the need arose.

"Harry!" Black bellowed, his roar cutting through the rising hysteria, "Hermione is yet breathing, her heart is beating, no one's shot off any curses, and they damned well better not. Cease trying to incite the situation. We simply have a very, very tired witch who has drained her magic doing the impossible. It's no wonder she wants to sleep."

"There's blood," Harry pointed to the rust colored streaks visible on her face and her crimson painted lips.

"I see no wounds," Sirius overruled.

Then Minerva and Dumbledore converged on him. He could no longer watch over the precious bundle Black held, and was forced to meet their eyes. Minerva's were questioning, and sharp, Dumbledore's held awful knowing, but Potter could not leave well enough alone and approached as well.

"Harry, you need to go, look after Miss Granger. There are things we must discuss," Dumbledore advised softly.

"He killed you. He hurt Hermione. She's bleeding. He can't be trusted," the boy's usually open face was dark, his lips twisted into a snarl.

"Yes Potter, under Minerva's nose I stabbed her. It's my blood," for emphasis he wiped the blood making a macabre design down his chin and throat showing off his crimsoned hand.

"He was following orders," the great Dumbledore finally condescended to explain, startling gasps from both Minerva and the boy.

"Albus, why didn't you warn us? Gracious, Severus, forgive me." Minerva exclaimed, her reference to the headmaster's death.

Potter, of course, did not react so favorably.

"_You did __**this**__ to her…following __**orders?**_" Harry accused, then turning on the two beside him, "Does that really just explain it all away?! He…He…" the boy trailed off his throat working soundlessly, face dark.

Minerva rounded on him shoving him back with surprising strength when his muscles bunched once more to assault Snape, "Mr. Potter, you are not in control of yourself. Go somewhere you can be of use and cease shouting. You are telling us nothing we do not already know."

Finally the boy slunk off and Snape found himself once more beneath the penetrating gaze of two, once colleagues.

Minerva, who had actually seen Hermione, spoke first, "Why is she crying? What did you say to her?"

"She is afraid."

"Of What? Of you?"

"No…yes…" he grimaced, motioning toward the house, "My study has silencing charms. The whole group need not hear this."

Minerva's eyes flicked to the elder two Weasley sons who watched Snape with suspicious eyes.

* * *

There you have it… wow… I am really glad we got through that. It was rather nerve wracking. Thank you to everyone for your kind words. Much love and all that jazz. I like this whole, its summertime and I have time to write thing. It makes me a very happy person.


	25. Chapter 25 - Tarnished Gold

Ch 25

Tarnished Gold

Settling gingerly into one of the high backed oak chairs facing the desk Snape watched Minerva take the seat beside him. He did not look at Dumbledore, whom he loved and hated, in equal measure. Rather at Minerva, a trusted colleague, perhaps a friend, if anyone would believe him it would be her.

"Let me explain—"

The door to his study opened and Black entered closing the heavy door behind him before leaning casually against it, "Please do."

Looking at the man, Snape expected old malice to boil to the surface, but it lay quiet. He could not afford to alienate any who might believe him, but more than that… they were no longer children, they were at war, one did not always get to choose one's allies...It had not enough of a reason the first time… and still would not have been, except that he had taken care of Hermione. That single thought was enough to combat years of cemented hatred, first for a reckless bully, then for the man who had betrayed Lily.

"Sirius, perhaps it would be best…" Minerva began, well aware of the antipathy between the two.

"Hermione is in Mrs. Weasley's capable hands. The hoodlums have been shoved into the library to stew. You cannot tell me off like Harry. I would simply like to hear for myself what he has to say. I promise to restrain myself."

Minerva nodded and he came further into the room to perch on the edge of the desk, near Dumbledore, who presided over the meeting like an eternal judge.

Snape, who had been given the time to don a shirt, finally began, "It will be easier to explain if I know what you know. Were you aware of anything between your deaths and tonight?"

Black answered, "Yes, and no, it's like a dream, broken, disjointed impressions and feelings, nothing definitive, nothing concrete. I was not in a bad place, but it was not a good place either, rather like I'd describe limbo if pressed."

Minerva interrupted, she needed to have her question answered, "Severus, why?"

"Was she crying? Because she was afraid, she's been raped before," At the dark look on Minerva's face he defended himself, "Christ, Minerva, not by me," They watched him distrustfully, "I did not leave a single mark on her."

Minerva frowned, "Looks like she left plenty on you."

Snape was suddenly acutely aware of the throbbing wound on his shoulder, the reddened scratches, around his neck and shoulders, gracing his arms, in long scarlet streaks.

Black coughed suddenly breaking the tense silence, "I think, we can give him the benefit of the doubt on that one… Hermione never struck me as particularly…err… passive," Sirius scrubbed his hand through his wild hair, distinctly uncomfortable both with championing Snape and considering Hermione as a woman.

Snape cleared his throat, "She was captured, about a month after you died, Minerva. I was sure she was dead… they reported three dead. With Lovegood and Longbottom… I had assumed... I don't know why she wasn't reported, I suspect Voldemort gifted her to Bellatrix. She and Vormis had her nearly four years… They did things to her there that near drove her mad."

Black suppressed a growl, "The slimy creature who worked in Azkaban?"

Snape shrugged, "It's likely. He had the…temperament for it."

"I'll kill him…"

Snape flashed him a blood grim smile, "Too late."

In that moment, the two shared more in a look than they had in seven years of tormenting one another. They were united for a space in the death lust that only those who have endured hell can feel without guilt.

"Is she alright…" Black gestured vaguely at his head.

"Yes," he smirked, "she's more sane than you by far."

The other gave a barking laugh, "Probably true, she was always tough."

"But why Severus? Why did you do that to her? And what did you tell her?" Minerva interjected.

Finally, he met periwinkle blue eyes, it was far harder than he remembered it being, "Why don't you answer her. Since, really this was your idea."

Dumbledore, who had been silent till now, as if he were innocent in this, as if he hadn't forced Snape's hand, remained so, his eyes troubled.

"Albus, did you?" Minerva pressed.

Seeing the old man meant to say nothing, as always, Snape glowered darkly at him, "As you wish, don't admit how you've played us all as puppets dancing to a tune only you hear. Black, in the drawer there, in front of you, pull out the prophesy record."

The other man handed the object across to him, and Snape set it on the desk, where Minerva could reach it easily, still glaring stonily at their silent chess master.

"The Serpent and the Lioness?" Minerva read aloud, looking up she looked first to Severus then to Albus clear questioning on her features.

Not even twitching from his unblinking contemplation of the aging dictator Snape responded, "He knew about it. He dropped enough hints that Hermione was able to piece together the whole story. He knew what he was asking of her."

"Severus," the old man finally spoke, "It was necessary."

"How early did you know? When did you know you'd condemned her to me? Was she even a bleeding first year? How did you look at her parents? Tell them their daughter would be safe at your school—" he raised his right hand flashing a scarlet mark on his palm, a miniature lioness, branded by fire into the skin between his first and second fingers, "We're stuck in this now, and you knew it was coming, hand-fasted. The girl at least deserved better."

"Severus, you must not let her know," Dumbledore began.

Snape laughed, coldly, bitterly, uncaring of the utter confusion on the faces of the other two, Dumbledore understood, "Perhaps you hadn't noticed, but despite your best attempts to keep your golden three in the dark, she knew. She knew about everything. I don't doubt she was aware of the consequences long before I was. Besides, you may have the luxury of hiding behind mists and mirrors from children, but the woman you've forced to be my wife, she deserves better than that."

She deserved better, because else she would slip quietly away in the night, a soft final breath… she had already revealed just how much she valued life as it would be with him, now that she felt her purpose had been fulfilled. He wanted suddenly to laugh…bitter hatred swelled in his heart, though his face remained hard. He was his father's son. Would every Mrs. Snape choose death over their husband?

Minerva MacGonagall rose to her rather intimidating height and barked out in her strong Scottish burr, "You will both cease your cryptic mutterings, **now**. Albus, what in heaven's name has happened? Severus, please do not tell me you bound the girl."

Black nodded deferentially to the witch, "I second her sentiments, and include my own. Can the hand fastening be broken?"

"No!" Dumbledore objected, "To do so would reverse the spell."

Black leaned back against the desk and frowned, "Well…hell… I find I'm rather loath to give up breathing again. How bound are we talking?"

"What precisely did you two do?" Minerva stressed, growing irate with their wary circling of the subject at hand.

Dumbledore was silent and brooding so Snape spoke, giving up on his contest of wills with the old wizard. The chess master would not explain himself to his pawns.

"He created a spell construct within her. It bound the minds of those members of the order she or I saw die to her subconscious mind. The prophesy predicts… The exact transcription is somewhere around here, I can show you all in person… if her red-headed guard dogs let me within a hundred yard radius, but essentially the only way to free your minds from hers was a severing working, but even combined neither of us had the power to transmute clay to flesh… thus the method you witnessed. She vetoed my desire to try blood magic first… typical Gryffindor. There was no other way. We searched for two months… to delay any longer, was to risk the Dark Lord renewing his interest in her. When she was captured she damaged most of her own memories, to keep them safe from the Dark Lord. I restored her mind… everything would have been revealed."

Snape frowned folding his arms across his chest, challenging the empty blue eyes which watched him so ambiguously, "She's no longer a child. She was a willing participant. She designed the spell work. Hermione knew what would happen. I know what she went through. I was as gentle as I could be. She will attest to that. She gave consent."

He did not warn her caretakers, '_She planned on dying when it was finished.'_ She was stable now, he had to believe that. He could not reveal her one moment of weakness. That was between the two of them. It would be betrayal to expose her so.

Dumbledore frowned deeply, "Uncoerced?"

"If it was coerced, it was not by me," Snape affirmed.

Snape's brow furrowed, not fully understanding the continued disapproval on ancient features. He had followed orders. He absently rubbed his knuckles down his side where five bloody scratches stung slightly. More crescents decorated his shoulders, and forearms, he was distinctly aware of each dull spot of drying blood. He could understand the judgment in their eyes. So what he had managed not to bruise her, she had still been trying her damnedest to make him bleed.

"You bound her," there was definite accusation in that gravelly voice.

"What wrong do you accuse me of? Yes, I bound her. There was no way to avoid it, but I did everything I could to lighten the chains. How am I to blame?"

"What are you going on about?"

It was Dumbledore who answered Black's question, "There are two broad variants of the ritual. One is consensual on both parts the other is not. The latter action would not have bound her to him."

Snape stared at the old wizard in shock, bile rising in his throat, "Do you really mean to tell me you would prefer I had raped her? On the chance it _might_ not have bound her to me. You do realize that on the flip side she **would** have ended up a mindless thrall, and that's only IF I survived. I don't think you appreciate what I would have had to do to stand a chance of coming out of an encounter in which Hermione fought back."

She would have killed him. Unless she was drugged and immobilized, too far gone to resist though she tried… and afterwards she never would have allowed herself to be saved. She would have thrown her all into resisting his power and she would have succeeded. She would have smiled weakly, her eyes laughing as they dimmed, mocking his impotence… mocking her tormentor as another woman he knew once had mocked another man. He could not believe the old wizard was serious.

The three pawns stared at their leader demanding an answer.

Dumbledore sighed heavily, scrubbing two unblemished hands over his face, "Your bond complicates things. Furthermore… I can't condone that you've bound her to yourself, she's little more than a girl."

Snape's clenched his hands, his molars grinding fit to break, words of rage and damnation held back from his lips by a thread. He almost shouted, '_She would be dead if not for what we chose. Would that be uncomplicated enough for you?!'_

He unclenched his jaw, slowly, eyes bleak, "Do you think I am not fully aware of that?"

Even at the highest point of their hatred and distrust for him, Snape, perhaps naively, could not comprehend that they honestly believed he intended to make use of the marital rights he now held over a girl. Just a girl.

His calm façade crumbled when Dumbledore frowned disapprovingly at him, censure and warning in his eyes. Snape came to his feet slamming his hands on his desk as he leaned forward to better loom over their foolish general.

"Damn you. Do you have any idea how much blood she shed for you? How she suffered, and cried, and stood strong under worse than you could endure. She did it on blind faith, blind faith and hope, in you, a heartless old man who was only using her to save himself. Don't you dare judge me for not taking everything from that _woman._ Yes, I bound her to me, but don't you dare suggest it would be better I had raped her. Are you mad? Would you really have had me destroy something so pure, and strong as that woman, to _**simplify **_things for you? She deserves more respect than that. For Christ's Sake, she's a living breathing human being, not some pawn on the board!"

Dumbledore's expression did not shift in the slightest despite the fact that Black had come to his feet and moved to stand in front of him, entirely prepared to bodily restrain Snape if it proved necessary. Minerva had stood as well and backed out of the way of what was going to be a violent duel or brawl. Snape deflated, looking at Black's protective stance, seeing Minerva's fear of him. Raising his hands, palm up, in the traditional signal of surrender, he backed away from the desk. He felt empty, and cold, and hopeless, sinking back into his chair. Nothing would reach the older wizard, he'd made his plans, set his course. There was no backing down for Dumbledore. And the rest of them… they were just waiting around for him to go mad, needing to be put down like some rabid beast.

"Fine then, if that means nothing to you, what about her soul? Or would she then be the victim, purified by her suffering? You're wrong, there's nothing good that comes of such sin. And what of mine? We've walked this road before, or is my soul no longer of concern? Am I beyond even your reckoning of redemption now?" Bitterly he hissed, "God, I hope one day Potter will realize you're just as much of a manipulative bastard as I am."

Black had abandoned his position as guard dog and was pacing the room with canine restlessness. Minerva simply looked appalled.

He was so very tired… his face fell into his hands. He could not have raped her. He physically could not have, god above, he had thought himself capable of any atrocity, but that, just that… he did not EVER want to know if he was be capable of that. Of taking everything, even her ability to resist away, and using her body for his shallow pleasure knowing he was breaking everything she was.

Black stopped his pacing suddenly, Snape could just see him out of the corner of his eye, "Snape, how are you two linked. Can she still think and act independently of you?"

The underlying question was can we trust her word as truth or your truth? Can we trust yours? If you've utterly brainwashed her, would you tell us?

"Honestly, we didn't know going in how bad it would be. I still don't know. I can't be certain until she wakes up. The prophesy predicted something conjugal in nature. I don't expect either of us have a highly independent future ahead. To the extent of my knowledge, her mind, her actions, they are her own... If as Dumbledore suggests, breaking the bond will undo the spell… I doubt she will agree to do it," he looked straight at Dumbledore, "No matter what she must endure," no change, no guilt, not even remorse showed on his face. Snape looked away, "She's one of yours Minerva. A Slytherin would not suffer so for others. She's endured so much. She does not deserve this."

Minerva was studying the man she had trusted and followed for most of her lifetime with piercing hunter green eyes, she shook her head, turning to Snape, "Severus, for her sake, I hope you're more Gryffindor than you know," with this final counter she rose from her chair and exited the room, no doubt to watch over her young lioness.

With one last disbelieving look at the old man sitting like a solemn judge behind the large oak desk, Snape rose and followed Black from the room.

Pausing outside the study door Snape looked at Black, "You believe me," he stated.

The other shrugged and kept his response non-committal, "I believe you did not and do not intend to harm her. I have been a man known to keep my friends close and my enemies closer. I have known the kinds of men who abuse women, and you may be an unholy bastard, but you are not what they are. I'll withhold the right to condemn you until I've spoken to her."

"Those you count your enemies speak volumes of who you are. Whatever regard you hold for me, I hope you will believe I did my damndest not to cause her harm."

Black inclined his head, "Indeed they do, and honestly, whatever you intentions, if she says otherwise… no, if she even twitches wrong around you. I will kill you."

Turning, Black walked way.

Unwillingly, Snape called out after him, "I would be grateful if you would look after her. She's very like you, stoic… she won't be able to stand the women's fluttering."

Black had stopped, but he did not make any acknowledgement.

"Please… Black, I have to help her."

"How can you possibly help her?" the other sneered, reminding Snape strongly of his godson.

"Christ, Black, she's no one's victim. Not mine, not even Bellatrix's… I have to… but I can't. I know I can't and I understand why, probably better than you do. I know how bad it looks... just… you understand better than the others what she's endured."

"I'm not doing it for you," the gray eyed aristocrat insisted, moving away.

* * *

Hermione ached, in every way it was possible to hurt and she was well acquainted with pain. It felt like her brain had turned to a hot coal which seared the insides of her skull and pure acid was flowing through her veins. Her skin prickled and stung, as if it were burned and raw at the same time. Her joints throbbed, but her head, oh God, her head felt fit to burst. She felt like a punctured wineskin, drained, useless, a husk missing all essential vitality…

Damn, so she was alive. She choked back a growl. Severus should have let her go… no she had not planned it… but the thought had crossed her mind. It made sense, tit for tat, her life for theirs. She had been grateful, so very grateful, to feel soothing cold seep into her limbs, her body growing weak as fire ran out of her hands and heart like water, searing her from the inside out.

Damn him.

She must have moved slightly for a warm hand touched her brow and she flicked her eyes open in alarm only to scrunch them shut groaning in pain. The light was like needles, raking her eyes.

"Water?" she croaked feeling soft, warm, unfamiliar hands lift her and press cool glass to her lips. She managed to choke down a few swallows, without embarrassing herself too badly. The movement hurt, as if someone had thrown a jackhammer into a swarm of angry wasps, stinging madly, buzzing and throbbing in her head. She grunted in pain and was immediately enveloped in a plushy embrace.

"Mrs. Weasly?" she rasped recognizing the scent and feel of scratchy warm wool and good food, "Where's Sev—Snape?" she hastily corrected.

A good decision she decided when the arms holding her tightened in a strangle hold, "Gracious dear, you needn't fear anything at all. I won't let HIM anywhere near you ever again. It's awful, absolutely sickening, what he did to you. How are you bearing up? You must be in a world of pain. Heavens dearie, I just can't believe such a horrific thing happened. I never felt easy about that man, something was always off about him, but gracious I never would have thought that even he would do such a thing…"

Hermione let the deeply offended matron rant clutching and rocking her back and forth. She didn't point out that the noise and movement had further enraged the swarm of wasps in her head. She didn't try to defend herself or him. The dripping hatred and disgust in Molly's voice was enough to let her know exactly what the woman wanted to hear. The pain was just getting worse and worse… she couldn't even concentrate on the other's words, just kept catching bits and pieces.

"That, evil, vile man—"

Hermione was pretending to have passed out once more and eventually the other noticed and laid her down, patting her hand with anxious fluttery motions obviously meant to soothe her. Hermione winced internally, praying they hadn't already lynched him. It's not his fault! She wanted to say. I made him go through with it. He didn't want to hurt me. He was gentle and kind, so kind to me. I wouldn't be here in more ways than you know… if not for him. But the words were stuck in her throat like prickly bones. They wouldn't go up or down. She was just so tired and hurting so badly. She didn't have the will to argue. She just wanted…

To tell them he…

To stop hurting…

To sleep.

* * *

Sometime later it was Professor MacGonagall she found standing guard at her bedside. Her head was still pounding viciously, but the sensitivity to light had receded so that she could open her eyes.

"Professor," she acknowledged, in a rasp.

The other woman looked up from the newspaper in her lap and smiled gently, "Good to see you wakeful, Miss Granger. How do you feel?"

Hermione made a non-committal noise looking away from the pity in kindly leaf green eyes.

"Truly, are you…hurt?"

She shook her head slightly trying hard not to jostle the swarm of wasps into wakefulness, "I'll be alright, just experiencing some nasty whiplash from severing the gateway so abruptly."

MacGonagall gave her a sad little smile and reached out patting her hand. As if to say, you poor, broken little creature, it's fine, you don't have to talk about how mentally and physically scarred you are right this minute.

"Snape is he—"

"You don't have to talk about it now," the other assured, and the pressing need of a washroom seemed to trump explaining… everything.

* * *

Her awareness passed in cycles. Moment's of clarity, many moments of confusion and fear, only half wakeful hearing strange voices all around and feeling strange hands touching and hurting. The fear and uncertainty was too much to bear, she fought for wakefulness, no matter how painful it's coming. When Hermione was next aware she kept very still trying to judge who might be in the room, and whether or not she wanted to deal with them.

Peeking from beneath her lashes she saw red hair and decided to go back to sleep, but then the redhead shifted and she saw it was Ginny.

She opened her eyes fully and looked the other girl over. Ginny looked so… young, frighteningly young. Had she looked like that? Before…

Ginny looked up and met her eyes and the two girls stared at one another for a long moment. Tentatively, Hermione smiled.

Then Ginny reached out and squeezed her hand, "Would you mind terribly if I snuck Ron and Harry in here? They've practically convinced themselves you're dead. Mum's being quite unreasonable."

"Not at all."

Ginny smiled tightly and hopped up opening the door just a crack. The door closed with a barely audible click and when it opened again three bodies sidled into the room.

Ginny immediately retook her place perched beside Hermione on Snape's bed, while Ron and Harry hovered awkwardly near the foot. Ron would not look at her while Harry's green eyes seemed to be burning holes into her.

Her face pinched slightly, "Hey guys, I've missed you," she offered cautiously.

"Us too, Hermione… Us too," Ron mumbled his eyes flashing to hers for a moment and then moving away. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets.

"H-harry?" she pled, unable to bear his accusing glare.

"Sorry, 'Mione… don't mean to scare ya," the brunette muttered looking away, but watching her from the corner of his eye.

"He's just angry. He's about fit to kill Snape. He's all unsettled, don't mind him, Hermione," Ginny supplied, patting her hand gently, "We're all so relieved you've woken up."

For the first time she felt well enough to argue, "Oh…Harry, please, it's not his fault—"

They were the wrong words. Harry absolutely exploded. For half a minute, Hermione was truly afraid of him.

"Fuck that load of bull! Why is everybody defending him? Even you… he hurt you! I saw him, he did horrible things to you, and you just want us to forget it!" Harry burst out leaning forward, looming over the terrified woman on the bed.

"Harry," Ron stammered grabbing his friend by the arm, "Harry, you gotta calm down."

"Don't tell me to CALM DOWN Ron!" Harry roared in his friend's face.

"Guys! Mum'll hear you!" Ginny cautioned nervously.

No one noticed how still Hermione was lying on the bed, or her pale, pale face, or the fine sheen of sweat that lay on her brow.

But Harry wasn't finished with her yet, shaking Ron's detaining arm off he leaned down close to the woman discreetly cowering back from him, "Hermione, you don't have to defend him. We'll keep you safe from him. That bastard'll never touch you again. "

Both Weasley siblings nodded their agreement, but Hermione could only shake her head unable to comprehend the pure blind hate, the violence in well loved eyes. It pushed Harry over the edge.

"Are you as blind as they are? How can you just…He's EVIL. You are a fool to defend him!"

Right as all hell broke loose Minerva and Molly burst into the room taking in the scene at a glance.

"Potter, Weasley, all of you, **OUT** **THIS** **INSTANT**!" Minerva ordered.

Molly, proving to everyone just how she'd managed to raise six boys, had wadded into the mess and grasped Ron and Harry by their collars, yanking the second back from where he was practically spitting in Hermione's face in his fury, and the other who was trying unsuccessfully to remove his friend from the room. Between Ron and Mrs. Weasley, Harry found himself dragged from the room forthwith.

Hermione stared after them in shock, her heart hammering in her chest, her breaths fast and shallow. She saw Professor McGonagall approach out of the corner of her eye, "Please go away, Professor. Please just go away," she begged softly.

McGonagall sighed, "I'm so very sorry, Hermione. He's just so angry, he didn't mean to upset you. Give him some time to… adjust, I'm sure he'll calm down…"

On and on McGonagall rambled, her soothing monologue only serving to wind Hermione up even more tensely. She did not want companionship that was only pitying or judging her. If she could not have silence, even pitying ignorant silence, she wanted to be alone. While they were watching she had to pretend everything was fine. It wasn't! Everything was so out of whack and wrong, she needed to… adjust to it, she needed to handle the problem. Running away was no longer an option. She needed to be alone and they

Would.

Not.

Let.

Her.

Be.

"GET OUT!" She screamed.

* * *

Oh dearie me… that was unexpected. I guess Hermione had more of a temper tan I thought, lol. Well tell me your thoughts on her reaction to the others. Is anyone else loving Sirius? He makes me really happy, seriously. Hehe. Sorry all, ignore the crazy author, it's the heat. Its' going to my head.

Thank you to all my kind reviewers, you make me feel less alone on the Internets.


	26. Chapter 26 - Mildly Mad

Ch 26

Mildly Mad

After that fiasco… Hermione learned to play nice or be treated like a mental patient about to start screaming and chewing the matress. She apologized to McGonagall. Hermione claimed it was stress and Harry's reaction that set her off, Minerva was gracious enough to pretend to believe her.

She made up the mask they wanted to see. She smiled when they smiled. She nodded and let them pat her head or her hand comfortingly. She didn't speak much, not with her head aching so, but they didn't want her to. Sometimes she could hardly bear to do more than lie there, just praying the hammering in her skull would lessen a little. But it didn't matter, they didn't want to hear what really happened, they were afraid of how horrible they would discover it truly was, and to confront that was to know she had done it for them. They wanted to talk to her, to make it better, to be the saviors that helped the broken victim. They wanted to convince themselves everything would be just fine and go back to normal.

They had sequestered her here in his bedroom. After the fiasco with Harry she had only seen the women. Mrs. Weasley, with McGonagall as her relief, had made a point of never leaving her alone. Yet, they would answer her nothing she wanted to know, nor let her speak of anything of import.

Was Severus alright? Where was Harry? Could she speak to Ron? Was Dumbledore doing anything? What was the end goal he had had in mind? Where would things go from here?

But she did learn a few things… they did not know what she had gone through for them. McGonagall and Molly knew the barest outlines and she blessed Severus for saying nothing to disgrace her. He knew everything, in full color, gruesome detail, but then… she knew he, who had sinned like she, would not reveal the stain they shared. They knew she'd been raped… but it was an abstract concept for them. They knew Bellatrix had tortured her, but they remembered nothing concrete from her hallucinations. They did not know that she had almost escaped them all. Hermione was unspeakable glad of this, at the same time as it left her terribly frustrated.

She wanted to shout, I'm alright! Really, truly fine! It's been worse, so unspeakably terrible at times and I've survived it. I'm not going to break down. I'm not going to cry. I won't go mad and off myself. I'm worried, not frightened. I'm feeling isolated and cut off and 'sheltered' for my own 'protection' and that makes me absolutely sick. I'm not broken and afraid of the world. She wanted to scream, 'I'm not a child! Respect my opinions, my decisions, my views. I am of a sound mind.'

But they would not even hear her speak Snape's name without launching into comforting speech or outraged diatribe. When she did manage to say she was fine they would pat her head condescendingly and shoot one another knowing looks. Their theories would flash across their faces, so obvious to her it was painful to watch.

The poor child has deluded herself. She's in shock.

It's a wall she's putting up, underneath she's sobbing.

She's been deceived by him. He's playing with her fragile, naïve heart that sought comfort in any form and found false hope in him.

He's threatened her into silence.

No need to threaten a wandless girl, one only needs Imperious.

On Minerva's part… well, Hermione could understand… she had not exactly appeared willing… but the woman should at least give her a chance to explain herself… but then she'd botched that when she'd lost it on the poor woman.

It was absolutely infuriating. Hermione was going mad cooped up here, no contact, no knowledge of what had really happened to her. Something was different, that much she knew. Sometimes the little mark on her palm would twinge and she would clench her left hand trying desperately to hide the dull fear and uncertainty the innocuous little mark caused her. Why was she branded? What did it mean? Was she his? Was it forever? Did he know? Was he angry? Was he well? Did he blame her?

He was angry, furious in fact. She's tried to give up. She knew he was infuriated by that, angry she had lied to him and worried. A small part was undoubtedly self-preservation, but as angry as she was with him for stopping her. She knew it had been the right decision, she knew he did it because he cared. Only a coward ran away… she hadn't really thought through the consequences of her actions beyond the relief of death, beyond being so tired, and hurting so bad, and wanting to sleep forever… she hadn't thought of how bad it would be for Severus. Or of how awful Harry and Ron and all of them would have felt knowing she'd preferred to die.

But no one would listen, and no one would answer her questions, and no one would treat her as a rational human being. She would go absolutely mad. Mad with uncertainty and fear and their GOD DAMNED pity.

She could just feel their shame for her as they contemplated it, but she felt no such self disgust. Uncertainty… a nebulous and growing fear caused by it… She had done what she did… for them, for their lives, because they were the only hope left and even now she loved them.

Yet, their ill disguised disgust, and embarrassment, and… they were ashamed of her. Ashamed of what she had done.

What shame was there in Severus's perfect gentleness? He had not conquered her as a man does a woman, using her as an object for his pleasure. What shame was there in her actions? She had been treated with honor, and a kindness honor did not require. She knew this and did not take out her lingering fear, the false night terrors inspired by the fear of those few terrible moments, submitting to his hand, acknowledging that only he had the fortitude to see the thing through, or worse pressed to hard ground by his solid weight. Just a second, her body pinned, the one instant of utter, blind fear when she almost lost control. She did not curse him as it would be so easy to do and permanently blacken his honor. No, he had kept his word, and caused no harm, she would show him the same courtesy, she had sworn it. Forgiveness no matter what. Where was the shame in that?

Why should she be revolted by it? Why should they? She did not… expose herself like that because she wanted to. Yet no one would meet her eyes. Why would no one look, really look, into her eyes? They talked and talked and talked of how everything was alright, and OK, and…and it obviously wasn't.

Had she done a bad thing? Severus surely believed he had. Was she equally responsible? Not for what they had done they had been equals in that, but was she the reason for the disgust in their eyes?

Alone with her thoughts, and dreams, and the useless, tauntingly empty words they offered. She went… a little mad.

Of them all she preferred Luna. The other girl would appear for an hour or two during the afternoon and sit with her. Although Mrs. Weasley would almost never leave the room, it was a break in the tedium. Luna was a reminder that not all dreams were formed of tears and terror. She would smile her sweet sad smile, and talk about the eating habits of the gulping plimpy, or where a nargle might be found. Hermione didn't know if she was in her own little world, or just didn't think it was important to interrogate her charge, whatever the reason Hermione was grateful and once contributed a crackpot theory on the lifecycle of heliopaths.

This slight response brightened the elfin girl immensely and the next five days spent trapped, were greatly improved by her presence. Although she learned nothing of import from the girl, in part due to Mrs. Weasley's hovering presence, at the least, she was not assaulted by a bevy of weighted glances and condescending head pats.

* * *

But… those were the good days, when the anger was stronger than the fear. Some days she was not that rational. Some days she woke drenched in cold sweat, and weakly claimed nausea from the migraine to explain the sallow grey tone of her skin and the uncontrollable shivering.

Those were the days preceded by nights that were too long. When fact and fiction and fear painted pain onto the backs of her eyelids.

…

She always smelled it first, blood.

Sight, the blood was hers, mixing with the black earth into her broken nail beds. It was falling from hands that were broken, bleeding, but no longer gouging wounds into the earth, just scrabbling uselessly, failing in their purpose to _crawl away_, because of a large, pale hand that pinned them above her head. She couldn't see anything else, not with her cheek pressed hard to the ground, a pebble working deeper and deeper into her cheek every time he bore down on her—

Feeling was a distant fuzzy thing, a blessing. Here, hidden away in her mind. She was safe, he could do what he liked to her body… she didn't really feel it, not anymore. Just the dull discomfort of her knees embedded with grit and straining with the inescapable press of his weight, too much, too strong. Just the other, too large hand pinning her hips against his, the bruising grip keeping her locked under him. Just the heat of his breath, across the back of her shoulder blades, the tips of his hair and forehead occasionally brushing her back no matter how much she flattened her upper body along the ground.

But hearing was the worst.

"Please," the voice was rough, heavy, and too close, just above her ear, but there was nowhere left to flinch away. She whimpered straining her arms, feeling the sharp pain as she pulled too hard and lost what was left of a fingernail in the dirt, but couldn't move herself an inch away. Any distance she gained was lost when his sweat damp chest and shoulders sealed to her back, his powerful haunches flush to her thighs.

"Stop, Hermione, please… stop fighting— please, just stop fighting. It's almost done. _**Please**_…"

Pain… pain she couldn't feel, because she was safe here. Safe… it didn't matter. It wouldn't matter. He'd be done… if she could just _sleep_ till it was over.

"Hermione, the power needs your heart to guide it," Desperation, fear, not hers. It was in the lips pressed too close, over her ear, a rasp, "_**Please**_—I need you here with me."

And suddenly she could feel, and she was small and vulnerable, and he was breaking her. HER. Hermione. His voice slipping in around the edges of the protective mask and sliding the killing blade right where it did more than hurt.

…

Waking it was all she could do not to scream.

_Shut up_

_Shut Up_

_SHUT UP_

* * *

Hermione stirred her soup listlessly around a few times. She didn't want to eat. Today was not a good day. Her stomach was rebelling against all but the lightest meals. It was worse than in the beginning, mainly because her eating habits were being watched with hawk like intensity by several women who were all convinced, though they did not say it, that A) she was starving herself, or B) she had been starved by Severus. They wouldn't stop casting these little disproving glances at her as they shoved more food on her.

God… she would eat, really, once they stopped standing there pityingly watching her choke down food, gagging as it passed into her stomach, the nauseating struggle to keep it down. Severus knew it was hard… he'd seen it before. At least he gave her the courtesy of suffering that humiliation alone. Hermione knew she was eating less than half of what she should be, but for her, that was spectacular.

But she couldn't very well announce,' Two months ago I was being starved to death. I was too nervous to force myself to eat that day… my stomach wants to start rejecting food again. Or better yet, I keep dreaming about him, not as he was, but how he could have been… you wouldn't want to eat after that either.'

She was just so tired all the time… she didn't want to bring it up. A near continuous, blindingly painful migraine kept her on edge even when the dreams left her alone. This contributed greatly to her nausea and tendency to flinch and cringe when people spoke too loudly. It angered the wasps setting up hive and home in her cranium.

Lunch time was therefore a highly tedious occasion. She sat, propped up on an array of pillows, a bowl of soup in her lap. Casually, she squashed the little letter shaped noodles drifting about in the soup with the back of her spoon, pulverizing them against the side of the white ceramic bowl. Molly was pouring her a mug of tea, mixing in copious amounts of milk and sugar... all a ploy to sneak more nutrients into her. She didn't want it. Given her druthers she drank coffee, one sugar, no milk. If it had to be tea, she wanted it black, neither sugar nor milk, but lemon to cut the tannins. Christ… she wasn't dying of starvation anymore, she knew what dying was… she would eat, at her own pace, once the god damned migraine let up enough so she could stomach food again.

The carrot chunks were bobbing about in her soup erratically. Suddenly it occurred to her drifting mind that the noodles in the soup spelled out a word.

DONT

This sank down under a floating circle of onion and a few more letters rose in their place. Curious she scattered them with her spoon feeling a mild charm of some sort. They fought against her and formed around the barrier of her utensil.

DRINK

The K was slightly squashed. It had suffered the back of her spoon.

THE

The H sank and an A missing one leg drifted in.

TEA

She barely kept a straight face as the letters F and G swirled playfully across the surface of the soup. To prevent Mrs. Weasley from pressing the mug of tea into her hands she scooped up a spoonful of the soup she had been ignoring for the last fifteen minutes munching on a G that was still wiggling a bit.

Satisfied Hermione was eating something, Molly put the mug to the side and poured herself a cup putting in just a drop of milk and perhaps a half pound of sugar. Hermione watched her surreptitiously as she sipped at the syrupy beverage.

After about five minutes Mrs. Weasley yawned, covering her mouth delicately with a hand, "Dearie me, I'm just so T-t—" she yawned again stretching the word out, "iiiiiiired. I'll just call Minerva in here, so you won't be alone dearest."

So saying she set the mug aside and rose partially from her chair only to relax back into it as her eyes slipped closed.

Hermione stifled a chuckle when not a minute later Mrs. Weasley began to snore softly.

Patiently waiting to learn the purpose of this prank she finished her soup setting the bowl, graced only by a bit of oil and noodle crumbs on the bedside table, beside the spiked tea.

* * *

I'm sorry all, our leading man is missing I know, but here's Hermione. Much love again to my reviewers. Sorry this update took as long as it did. I have a lot of ideas as to where this will go from here and they are warring for space in the written word.


	27. Chapter 27 - Breaking Quarantine

Ch 27

Breaking Quarantine

Slowly the door swung open and a brightly blonde head poked in, surveying the room and its occupants. Luna smiled and put a finger to her lips pushing the door the rest of the way open revealing both Fred and George who upon seeing their sedated mother did an impromptu fist pump/victory jig. Luna touched her finger to her lips.

They looked straight at her. Their eyes didn't drift to just above her head or away in general. Both boys, men now, looked straight at her and smiled, as openly as they would have sprinting past her in Hogwart's halls six years past.

When Mrs. Weasley began to snore loudly Fred… or was it George? spoke, "Great to finally see ya, Hermione! I'd begun doubting you existed, the girls being so mum abouts it and all."

George, or Fred… the other one, "But we, knowing our mum,"

"As we do," the one in the red polo chimed in.

"Figured after six days you were going batty stuck with stiff ol' McGonagall and Mum, the mother hen from hell," the stripped green and blue finished.

"We'd come in and give you a congratulatory hug on surviving a week, bedridden in their combined presence, but Dumbledore cast some sort of repelling charm for those of us not of feminine…"

"Inclinations," the stripped wizard filled in, "And also on being the first to witness a successful implementation of the 'Comatose Cozy' our newest Weasley Wheeze. Once they begin snoring, nothing short of an explosion is waking 'em up and even then they might just roll over,"

Both grinned madly a moment and the one in red finished in an infomercial pantomime, "The effects last from two to four hours depending on how long the tea is brewed. It tastes like Earl Grey. If your intended victim does not respond to innervate 12 hours after ingestion it may be time to seek medical assistance."

She smiled widely at them, "Brilliant," she congratulated, "and thank you, I was trying to figure out if a mug launched at the back of her head would put her out of my misery."

The stripped one frowned mournfully, "It doesn't work. I've tried. She just gets angry you've doused her in scalding tea."

"You didn't!" Hermione breathed.

"He did," the red responded, "Mum took it out of his hide too. Ahh, Dragon pox, it was a long two weeks…"

She chuckled and smiled wider when a large black wolfhound poked his head around the doorframe, "Ahh… so we're testing whether this barrier is trans-species?"

"Yup!" the twins chorused.

Luna smiled up at the twins and said, "I told them the flutterwoggs seemed to be getting into the room just fine, and you know, there are only male flutterwoggs."

Taking his cue Sirius trotted up to the door, pausing at the threshold a moment before stepping across with, apparently, little difficulty.

"Well…well… that was just too easy." One twin huffed.

The other nodded, "Dumbledore must be losing his knack. I mean really, the age line was sooo much harder to fool!"

"He musta been concerned Snape had a pet… does he seem a cat person to you?"

"More like a bat person… I suspect he hates dogs as much as dogs hate him," a wink to Sirius at this juncture.

"Really? Because I can see him with something like a short haired Mrs. Norris. An ill tempered orange tabby maybe? Remember, he was the one who un-basilisked her."

Realizing they had become too involved in the debate, both twins reoriented themselves to the rest of the world outside of their twinness and smiled warmly at her, "Well, we just wanted to see if you'd survived mum."

The red twin grew serious then, "And to thank you, it was hell, being without this one, even for a month, bloody awful."

Ahh, so that was Fred, he'd survived till the battle at Hogwarts, survived losing most of his family.

George touched a hand to his left ear as he threw his arm around his twin's neck, "I, for one, thank you for returning my ear. It's easier to be a bloody nuisance when nobody can tell who's who."

She accepted their thanks with a wide grin, "You've made it all worth it with this," she jerked her thumb at the snoring matron.

Fred tipped an imaginary hat, "Glad to be of service, milady." He announced as George executed an exaggerated bow and they scampered off.

"Hermione?" Luna queried in her lilting, almost childishly high voice, "Do you mind at all if I go? The jumping jollygimps in the garden are most active at 16 minutes past four."

"Not in the slightest," Hermione assured smiling at Sirius.

She always forgot how big he was. On all fours he was on eye level with her. That put him above her waist had she been standing. He was just a behemoth, all black, and shaggy, his coarse coat tipped in dark grey that gave him an even more ragmuffin appearance that was all Irish Wolfhound.

Luna nodded and skip-floated out of the room.

As soon as the door had closed Sirius seemed to quiver before her eyes, melting very quickly into human form.

"Hermione," the large, dark man greeted. He grinned wryly, "You're actually looking worse than when I saw you last, and I'm the one who carried you here."

She scowled at him, "Shut it, you try living with Mrs. Weasley for a nursemaid. She won't even let me go to the washroom alone!" she gesticulated in irritation at the extra door that the McGonagall had transfigured from wall, so that Hermione never actually had to leave the safe confines of the bedroom.

He waved a placating hand approaching from the foot of the bed to stand beside her, "I only say so because I come bearing gifts."

Reaching into a pocket he removed several vials. She immediately recognized the handwriting on the labels as Severus's.

"Ah! Yes, this is it," He murmured extending a silvery gray vial, "He said you'd have a headache."

Hermione closed her eyes a minute sending up a prayer of thanksgiving, "God bless you both,"

She took it and uncorked the potion drinking it quickly.

She sighed as cooling relief seeped through brain matter that had seemed permanently enflamed by pain.

"Lord, how did you know?"

Sirius chuckled, "Thank Sniv- Snape, he said overuse of magic gave you killer migraines. Tried to explain it to Minerva, but Molly overheard and is utterly convinced he would poison you or something along those lines."

She rubbed her forehead tiredly, "That's just…" she was at a loss as to what adjective was expansive enough to cover the mixture of insanity, paranoia, and blindness that such a reaction warranted.

"Harebrained?" Sirius suggested, "Well, yes, but all the females have gone slightly mad… most of the males too," He paused gravely, "I apologize for Harry. He won't do that again."

Hermione bit her lip and looked away. Sirius squeezed her shoulder, "It's not you Hermione. His hatred for Snape… well, he would have gladly killed him after Dumbledore, it was the last straw. He wants blood and he doesn't want to hear that this desire might be premature."

"Yeah…" she murmured feeling a lump form in her throat, with difficulty she cleared it, "So why are you trusting him?"

Sirius shrugged, "I trust him to kill anyone face to face. Besides, you're the only one who can corroborate his story. If you were to drop dead… well, I highly doubt he'd survive the night."

She raised a brow. He stared at her impassively. He was utterly sincere. He would be the one to end the other man if Hermione so much as blinked wrong around him.

Hermione frowned darkly and to soften the intimation of violence Sirius grinned sheepishly, "Alright, so I made him taste the potions before I'd take 'em. Sue me," he extended the next, "Strengthening brew,"

It tasted distinctly minty, it made her throat feel cold when she inhaled.

He hesitated on the last, it was a cloudy red color, "He said you were aware… a contraceptive?"

Hermione nodded not succeeding in fully concealing her relief, "Yes, we discussed it. My God, it's almost been a full week, I didn't think…" she pressed a hand over her stomach, a thread of panic on her face.

She extended her hand for the vial, and he placed it into her hand, but didn't let go, "Hermione, is this what you want or what he wants?"

She panicked a little, suddenly afraid this first beacon of logic would turn false on her, "Please, I don't want a baby, not now. Why in the name of all that's good would I want to have his child—any child?"

Sirius, unfazed by this took a deep fortifying breath and bulldozed right on with his spiel, "Because we will find a way… if you want the baby, you don't have to do this," he assured her gravely.

Hermione realized she was clutching at the blankets in her lap and forced her hands flat rubbing her palms across her lap smoothing the creased blankets, "Sirius… I'm not particularly healthy. It's not just the spell. In the dungeons… I was malnourished and weak for so long. The chances are so small, but even if by some miracle it did happen, if I managed to carry to term… It wouldn't live long."

"Did he tell you that? That's no reason for him to make you kill your own."

"Christ, is that what you see this as? He's trying to protect me. You don't understand, no one would have to manipulate me into this. He's not a bad person... Sev-Snape left the decision in my hands. I could have said no. I always could have said no. I chose to do this… I've lost… I can't. I just can't. If it makes you feel better, the chances are so small… timing and all that…"

"It's not about making me feel better, it was a fertility ritual."

Hermione ducked her head, "You think I don't know that?" she hissed, "I designed it. He didn't have anything to do with the casting. I did. I did all of it," She looked up and saw his drawn face, some sympathetic word on his lips, "Don't, that's what we agreed on. I didn't get myself into anything I didn't already know about."

"You smelted your own shackles," his face was very grave, he was angry.

"It was better to lock it about my own ankle than have to submit to his closing one around my neck." She gave him a sheepish smile, breaking her grim countenance and unconsciously rubbed her wrists, "They are his too, and I know the loopholes better. Please, I don't want to risk bringing a child into this. It will strengthen the bond...I can't have that. Snape, he'll be able to let me go, but his own child. I couldn't ask any man to do that…" she smiled weakly, "It's not like we could get a divorce if it didn't work out," she gave a slightly hysterical laugh, "What would we tell it? Your da? Oh well he—" she seemed to realize her mouth was running away on her and snapped her lips shut, mumbling a muted sorry.

Slowly, Sirius nodded and let her pull the vial from his hands, his grey eyes reading the honest plea for understanding on her features, and he did… at least the sort of hate he couldn't help but spew when someone brought up Peter was simple. Pure, simple, invigorating hate. Now Snape, he was obviously a whole other ball of wax. It wasn't hate, or fear… but it was a something.

"He was kind?" he asked, watching her drain the potion. He can tell he's worded the question wisely. He may personally think Snape is one cold, heartless, sideways son of a bitch, but even an outside observer can tell that to Hermione, about Hermione, he's a little softer.

She took a deep breath, ascertaining that she was calm and in control, "More than you could imagine."

"You were sobbing, screaming and sobbing." he pointed out gravely.

Hermione growled in frustration. Clear headed for the first time in days, she was sick of all the suspicion and misdirected hate and finally feeling strong enough to do something about it, "Sirius Black! Fucking awful things have happened to me since you died. You know what dementors do to a person's mind. You get to where you can only see the bad things, and they replay in your head again and again till the memory is more real than reality. Till at a touch you don't see or feel or hear, and the only thing you know is the past. Your mind just runs away on you and you can't stop it…"

Sirius raised placating hands before him, "Alright, I know. Sorry for pressing, I had to be sure."

She pinched the bridge of her nose, "I—Damn, I know it looks bad. How could it not look bad? Just talk to Dumbledore. Why isn't he defending Snape?"

Something about this statement unsettled Sirius who frowned slightly and looked away from her. He couldn't even fully explain it to himself… just that he would not have dealt half so well as Snape with having this shithouse of a plan foisted on him, and all the blame to go with it. It was like training a pit bull for dog fighting and then beating it when it went and won a round. It's not friendly, or nice, or good, or kind, but it was only trying to do what you told it to. Trying to be loyal.

His hands twitched once, fighting an old habit to rub his knuckles over his wand, fucking weird thinking about the bastard positively, "Do me a favor and don't… trust Dumbledore as far as you usually would."

Slowly, Hermione nodded, "Alright, I won't, but why the cryptic warning? What's wrong?"

"I- just… I don't think he's done with his plans. He is, for some reason, displeased with Snape, which is why the rest of the household is so hostile…just... I don't know, don't explain yourself to him. In fact I'd avoid him altogether if you can. I don't like how he went about this…how he's going about this."

Confused, but willing to trust the first person who seemed ready to listen to her in what felt like a lifetime, rather than a week, she nodded more firmly, "No worries, listening to him this last time hasn't turned out so hot for me. I'm not ready to surrender to his orders so soon."

Sirius gave her a smile, "He's right, you are saner than I. I'll try to get this madness sorted out. Doubt it'll have much effect… I think Luna and Neville with her… the twins, Minerva will be harder, but it can be done. Those at least will listen to reason. Try talking to Minerva… she'll listen, after Harry, she's afraid to unsettle you. She disbelieves both Dumbledore and Snape in equal measure, you can sway her. But aside of that there's really little to do. You just rest up, so you can give another go at shouting down the loonies. Till then, sit tight and keep Molly here sippin' her tea. The twins have got her stocked up on comatose cozies enough to last a month."

Hermione frowned, she felt buzzed with energy from the potions now, but knew very well she needed at least another few days of rest… sitting up still made her light headed. "I feel so useless."

"Ha, welcome to the club. You're in a house full of wandless wizards and the one who does have a wand can't do a thing because everyone is just waiting for him to go berserk and kill us all."

She rubbed her hand over her face and her eyes caught on the small black serpentine mark almost hiding in the crease between her first and second fingers it was just small enough that it could be completely concealed with the tip of her little finger.

She almost asked. But sealed her lips, such things were between herself and Severus. No one else needed to know.

"What's going on? Please, I can't take not knowing. What's being done? What needs to be done?"

"Very little and in heads above mine," Sirius admitted, "Everything is basically at a standstill. Snape has the information we need. But no one trusts Snape. You can… hypothetically clear his name but Molly feels any mention of it will send you over the edge. Snape won't speak of you to defend himself. He says that it's your place to say what you will. I think he's half-convinced you will condemn him…so he isn't trying too hard to defend himself. He's basically hiding from the rest of the household in his lab."

She frowned deeply, "Damn it, I need to do something… but I know I can't… I can't even stand up on my own," she growled in frustration, "You take my word, why can't it be that simple?"

He looked away, "It upset us to see you like that. He is the perfect villain, the one we all wanted to see from the start, and you fit the role of victim too well."

"Fuck."

Sirius nodded companionably.

Deceptively nonchalant, she inquired "Hey, can you get me to the door?"

"Uh, if you leave this room, Molly will eat me."

"Oh, man up. Anyway I'm not leaving. I want to see if I can remove this blasted barrier," she retorted.

Sirius folded his arms across his chest, "Is that a good idea? Harry—"

"Is going to get slapped in the face next time he tries pulling that stunt. The only reason he didn't get hexed into next month last time, was I had a headache fit to split my skull, felt like a hippogriff had trampled me to death, and less energy than a drowned cat," she scowled darkly, "He should know better than to mess with me. He's absolute rubbish wandless…"

Both of his dark brows rose sharply in surprise at this spirited retort, "Without the headache, you're downright feisty."

She mimicked his shocked expression, "And unlike the rest of the household you aren't so convinced I'm on the verge of a mental break you treat me like a babbling simpleton."

He frowned, "Has it been that bad?"

"Please. Help. Me. I'm going slowly mad, alone here…with them."

He extended his hand allowing her to use him a prop to stand and then half lifted, half walked her to the threshold.

"Is this wise? I'd give you a hand, but aside from a dueling magic… I'm rather useless wandless, perhaps Harry gets it from me," he joked weakly.

"I find I don't really care seeing as the damned thing won't let me pass," she announced in a deceptively calm voice, thumping her fist against an invisible shield trapping her in the room.

Sirius whistled lowly his pale eyes wide, "I swear I didn't know. Truly."

"Just… shut up," she growled seeing red.

No one locked her up. Not anymore.

He did, letting her lean heavily on his arm as she reached out again closing her eyes in concentration.

Her fingers twitched several times, and once a shower of periwinkle blue sparks shot in all directions. But otherwise there was no reaction. Again she slapped the surface of the barrier getting a mild shock for her efforts. Grunting in frustration she released his arm and pressed both hands to the barrier. To stabilize her he quickly stepped up behind to support her.

Coming into contact with her actually frightened him, even he could sense the magic clinging to her skin… which wasn't the strange part, it was the fact that it was not her signature magic, it was just power, wild, and untainted by the personal touch of use by a wizard. Her brow was deeply furrowed, and her blazing amber eyes flashed open. She made a shoving motion with both hands, her fingers splayed widely clenching into fists. He watched her grab at the shield her hands twisting as if she were ripping unseen fabric. He felt the power along her skin vanish as she took hold of the free magic and bent it to her will. The air of the doorway warped and shimmered blue with Dumbledore's power and then it shattered, falling like a shower of glass to the ground where a periwinkle line shimmered a moment before her power pressed outward like a fine mist to smother his spell.

"Impressive," Sirius acknowledged as he helped her sit back on the bed. He noticed how pale she was, "Hermione, maybe that was a little too soon. You don't look…"

Hermione shook her head, controlling her breathing, forcing it to slow, "No, no, no, no. nobody traps me anywhere. It was too much a prison. Now it's better."

Slowly Sirius nodded, he understood this sentiment all too well, "Yes, he should not have done that…You're not mad… it's instinct talking, you and I have been too long locked up. It'll get better soon, once you're out of here you'll be fine."

Hermione grimaced and shook her head. It wasn't healthy this sort of anger that made her want to scream… and hurt someone, particularly certain someones. Not when he was probably trying to help… Sirius seemed to understand and squeezed her hand. She returned his grip and let out an angry huff, which caused Mrs. Weasley to shift in her chair.

"You should go before she wakes," Hermione admonished… suddenly aware that they were all working very hard to stay under Dumbledore's nose and getting caught by the Molly would not be conducive to that. It must have been an under brewed cup.

"I'll let you rest then," Sirius whispered, "We'll get you out of here soon."

He smiled in acknowledgement of her little wave and exited shutting the door firmly behind him, before the Weasley matron could suspect foul play.

* * *

Still no Snape, sorry all… but Hermione being spunky, yay! And the twins who give me conniptions of joy, and Sirius, who just makes me plain happy if anyone could tell from his spot in the limelight. Thanks to everyone who reviewed! Please, share your thoughts, they make me happy.


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